


Lives in Abstraction

by RedChucks



Category: Surrealissimo (2002), The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-16
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-03-13 06:30:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 39
Words: 144,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3371315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedChucks/pseuds/RedChucks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The imagined memoirs of a surrealist poet.<br/>(Based on the characters Gui Rosey and Victor Bauer played by Julian Barratt and Noel Fielding in the film "Surrealissimo: The Trial of Salvador Dali".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

To my dearest -----,

  
In answer to your questions about the artist whose work and photo adorn my wall I write you this letter, for I know it was rude of me to dismiss your questions so bluntly yesterday, and because it is, perhaps, time for this story to be told, as hard as I am finding it to begin.

It was a brief affair. (Such a start to a letter. My apologies for my melodrama.)But truly, to me, it was a brief affair.

Brief by the standards of time spent in each others arms at least. But not truly brief, I suppose, as it has never truly ended. He has been in my thoughts and haunting my dreams every moment and breath since the day we parted.

Even in death our affair is not over, for he is with me still in so many ways. And, yes, I know he is dead. He would not have ceased his correspondence with me for anything less than death, I think, and his last letter was full of the sentimentality and nostalgia that is typical of the dying. It was not an easy letter to read, most of his essence and life had already left him. And now it is just me alone, carrying on a secret love affair with no one left to reciprocate the pain.

I have never spoken of it. I am not so good at talking aloud, not like him. He could talk for hours of nonsense and truth until one finally saw how thin the veil between the two really was. But I am a man of letters, it is my trade. So I shall write it to you, sweet child of mine, so that you will understand that I know something of the pain you are in, that you are not alone in this, that you are not an abomination, and that love such as yours has always existed, even if we left little trace of it.

And perhaps I do this for myself as well. I have never put down on paper what passed between he and I but I think it needs to be done, for me to find the peace my soul is craving. I shall try not to be too extreme in the relating of our more intimate times together but, then again, I make no promises, for the truth, once begun, is often like a burst blister - it must all come out, and come out quickly, if the wound is to heal.

So now, without further waffling and old man’s procrastination, let me write for you the tale of Victor Bauer, the Surrealists, the war, and the moment I discovered that, for all my biting repartee against romance and those who lived in denial of the brutal truth of our godless world, I had a soul mate, and he was a man of ridiculous ambiguity and strangeness to rival even Dali, but whose name and art has been all but forgotten. A fact which I think, in the end, was just what he wanted.

Victor Bauer, I was told before I met him, was an insufferable man and a compulsive liar, but with good connections and a sharp eye for art in any form that transcended the mediocre. I had seen a few of his works in a back street Salon, rather too full of whimsy perhaps for some tastes, but something about them drew me, called to me, as if the emotions and desires I could not find words for had been pulled from my heart and put down on canvas - an incomprehensible mess of colour and shapes to anyone else, but desperate truth to me. When offered the chance to make his acquaintance at a party I could not refuse. He had power over me, it seems, before we had ever met.

It was nineteen-thirty-one and I was a floundering poet approaching the age of forty with frightening speed, searching desperately for a direction in life and doing rather unsavory things for money. I had offered my services to several women of wealth, and had my offer accepted more often than I thought my body merited, because women of a certain social class liked to be romanced by a poet, even if he was poverty stricken and un-groomed, or perhaps because of that, I do not know. I had also posed for artists looking for a male model and a week ago I had written pamphlets for a local politician, under a pseudonym of course, simply to get money for cigarettes and rum.

What poetry I was able to write at that time was full of anger and vitriol but lacking in any deeper substance. It was empty words with no heart, no deeper meaning. I was lost. My life was a grey pattern of orgasms, booze, and blinding self-hatred - I had once thought it the most brilliant kind of life but now I was desperate to experience something, anything, that would allow me to feel again.

I knew of the Surrealists, had read their Second Manifesto of 1929, and wished somehow to weasel my way into their ranks, but did not know how. All of that changed rather quickly however when, one Saturday morning, a man I knew, a man I had modeled for, by the name of Max Ernst, ran into me in the street. He quite ran into me, spilling the contents of his grocery bag over me and the cobbles upon which I fell and, when I had helped him to repack it, minus the bottle of olive oil, which I was now, sadly, wearing, and he had apologised profusely, he invited me to the party he was hosting with a friend of his that very evening.

He pulled a stick of graphite from the pocket of his waistcoat with a flourish that I admit, impressed me, and wrote the address of the party onto the white cuff of my shirt sleeve before rushing off, apologising again for drenching me and suggesting that I turn up late and bring the poems I had shown him the previous Spring.

I did not know what to think of such an odd encounter. I had never received such a strange invitation to a party before and a large part of my brain was determined that I should not go for surely it would end in disaster and humiliation. My heart, however, seemed more inclined to see the chance encounter with Ernst as an act of fate that needed to be acted upon, and I spent several hours pacing about my cramped room, trying to weigh the pros and cons of attending the party and what I could possibly wear if I did indeed cave to my heart. It was an afternoon of great (if needless) stress but eventually, with the help of the last of my alcohol and too many badly rolled cigarettes, I resolved to go along for a short while, even if it was just to catch a glimpse of the Surrealists whom I so admired.

I tried to clean myself thoroughly of the olive oil that had been spilled on my face and hands but my soap ran out before I had made much headway and so I was forced go to the party with the scent and shine of it still visible on my skin. I like to imagine that the oil, and the youthful glow it gave to my skin that evening, played a part in Victor’s attraction to me. It could not have been any beauty of my own possession for as you can see, I far from an adonis, what ever he chose to call me when he was feeling complimentary.

The party was rather more raucous than I had been expecting. Wine flowed and smoke and laughter hung heavy in the air and I ached to be able to throw myself into the whirl of conversation and debate, but could not. Several of the ladies I knew well, they too were models like myself (and other things), and I made my greetings to them and accepted a drink I was kindly offered but was not sure what else to do. Most of the men were a mystery to me and so I stood, in a corner by the patio doors where the light was dim and I might go unnoticed, with my poems folded under my arm and my drink in my hand, wishing I knew how to talk to others.

Ernst approached me eventually, hardly remembering who I was, but the woman with him, Violette, was a model and dancer who had known me some years, and when Ernst excused himself in order to speak with the great André Breton himself - which he announced with such pomposity I thought his chest would rise him right off the floor, as full of hot air as it was - Violette stayed and watched the room with me, pointing out people she thought I might like to know, and others who she knew for a fact (so she said) that I would loathe. Such a tiny creature, was Violette, with large eyes and plump lips that drew attention away from the firm line of her jaw, all of which combined to form a creature who often seemed rather androgenic and fey and not quite human. Violette was the sort of person whose face always seems far too young for the knowledge in their head but who, like so many, had been trying to grow during the Great War, when food was scarce, and scarcer still for a young girl on her own. She had a slow way of moving her head when looking over a room and when I was a younger man I had imagined her as a queen surveying her subjects rather than woman of many, less than proper, pursuits surveying her potential prey. In truth I believe it was a manifestation of her skill at reading people and learning their manners, for her primary source of income in those days was as a performer - an impressionist, mimic and sometime cross-dresser - and it was a marvel to watch her, and a little odd that night to see her dressed so femininely when I was more accustomed to seeing her attired in fetching suits or more modest dresses than the sparkling frock she wore that night.

Her eyes were fixed on a thin, young man at the opposite end of the room and when I noticed this my eyes too were drawn in that direction, and I found I could not look away. His face was striking, not quite a man’s face, not quite a woman’s (though there was definitely something feminine about it). It was something other, the conclusion of the strangeness one only sensed in Violette, an intense, fey androgyny, and the fact that I found it so beautiful shocked me. He was talking with two other men, one of whom was looking at him skeptically while the other seemed simply bored, though I could not see how that could be possible based on the way the young man was gesticulating as he spoke.

His eyes were large and sparkling from wine above cheekbones so sharp they could have been sheered from a glacier. His hair, slicked back from his face in an oiled tail, was unfashionably long, and his nose stuck out like an abstract sculpture from his face, and yet I thought he was the most glorious creature I had ever seen.

“Who is he?” I mumbled to Violette and she looked away from him long enough to register the desire on my face before returning her gaze to the man in the corner.

“Victor Bauer,” she told me, rolling the name across her tongue like it was a fine wine to be savoured. “He’s Austrian. An artist. And an absolute madman. He will paint and talk and argue with his models but never tries to take them to his bed. He will say he has a wife waiting for him back in Vienna on one day, and that he is sworn to a life of celibacy on another. We all adore him, but none of us believe him,” she finished with a smile that was almost a smirk.

“And why is that?” I asked, my eyes still fixed upon the man’s animated face.

“Because,” she told me, with some amusement. “He is a liar. He lies for fun, to confuse others, because he forgets the truth. He infuriates most men because he will tell them twenty facts that all sound like truth when in reality on half can be believed. But only Bauer knows which half.” She paused for a moment, her smile growing as she recalled some other memory of the man’s strangeness that had delighted her. “Would you like to meet him?”

“Yes,” I said too quickly, and Violette was gone before I could alter my reply in order to seem less desperate. Instead I kept my eyes on Monsieur Victor Bauer.

I watched as Violette strode over to him, ignoring the other men who tried to get her attention, and draped herself over Bauer to whisper, apparently seductively, in his ear. He grinned, wide and devilish, before excusing himself and following her away from the men he had been so recently in conversation with. Their eyes followed Violette, lustful and jealous in equal measures, but my eyes, still, could only see him.

And then, all too quickly, he stood before me, and my eyes could not take him in enough - roving over his slim frame, hidden though it was in the ill-fitting suit - and my mind could not think of a single word to send to my mouth by way of greeting.

“Victor,” Violette said warmly, “this is Monsieur Rosey. Gui, this is Monsieur, Bauer.”

“Thank you, my Viol,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her cheek in a way that made my blood begin to boil, and I barely noticed her disappear into the crowd, so focused was I on those lips.

He smiled at me, tilting his head to better look at me from below, as if it were the more interesting angle, and my mouth opened, dry and empty, as a blush began to creep up my neck to paint my jaw and cheeks a burning, mottled pink.

“Hello, Monsieur,” he said, his accent apparent but not thick or jarring, and I blinked as I looked into his eyes.

And those eyes. They were blue (O how he would chastise me for describing a colour so artlessly!) but you see, I had not been able to tell before, when he was across the room, but now I could see that they were a pale blue, almost green, like a shallow sand pool at the beach of Porto Pollo, and just as beautiful and full of sunlight. I tried to reply to him in kind but still could not speak, and felt my embarrassment increase as I gaped at him like a simpleton, waiting for the moment when he would surely laugh and turn away from me. But he did not. He did laugh, but it was light and good natured and he took my arm, steering me out through the patio doors and into the cool, dark garden, expressing his need for some air.

“The room was too hot for you also,” he told me matter-of-factly once we were in the relative privacy of the garden, hidden from the party by a wall overgrown with what smelt like bougainvillea or honeysuckle.

“Yes,” I panted, trying to breathe as I regained the power of speech. “Yes, and... hello.”

He smiled at me again at that, and a strange sensation filled my stomach. It was like sitting in the bathtub as the water is let out and feeling it swirl around you as it is sucked down into the pipes. It was unsettling, yet I wanted the feeling to continue.

“So, Gui Rosey,” Victor purred, speaking my name in a way it had never been said before - slowly, almost obscene. “What are you?”

“Sorry?” I stuttered, looking at him in confusion as he leaned gracefully against the wall, almost disappearing into the tendrils and leaves of the hanging plants.

“Everyone in there is something. They are artists, writers, poets, philosophers, politicians, or some combination of the above. They aren’t really friends, only not-quite enemies, staying close to one another like a herd of zebra.”

“Zebra?”

“Indeed,” he nodded at me. “They are fascinating creatures, zebras. Stupid but fascinating. There are a few at the menagerie here but they are poor specimens, I feel certain of it. I have read of them. I would like to see them in their proper habitat. Zebra look so very flashy on their own you see, my dear Rosey. But in reality their stripes are all so similar to one another’s that they can stand or run together and the lions cannot tell one from another, and so they are safe. The men in there are zebras.”

“I see,” I said quietly, and the more I thought about his words the more I did understand what he meant. “And what are you?”

“A horse,” he told me with a laugh, throwing his head back to cackle at the moon like it was the wittiest joke in creation. “A black and white horse that might pass for a zebra from a distance, when surrounded by other zebras, but which, when seen at arms length, is nothing but an ordinary, lacking in pedigree, rather small, horse.”

“Surely not,” I argued, for surely he was far more exotic than any of the posturing intellectuals in that room. Except that perhaps a horse was an exotic creature when surrounded by zebra.

He grinned at me, his face in the dim light even more strange than before, and more enticing.

“I am a horse,” he assured me. “But barely one. I am not a stallion, I might pass as a mare. Perhaps I am a mule. Some of the fools in there call me so,” he said with a sudden, hard edge to his voice. “But what are you?”

“A poet, but not a very good one,” I said, looking out into the dark, enclosed garden, wondering if that made me as pointless and self-indulgent as the men Bauer had so recently been ridiculing.

“A poet, but not a very good one,” he repeated and I felt my cheeks begin to burn with shame again until he pressed his hand to my arm, just above my wrist. “Then you are worth more than all of those men who have left behind their self doubt in pursuit of intellectual purity. Better to be starving and striving than toasted by idiots.”

I turned back to him, searching his face for a sign of malice or deceit, for some indication of the liar I had been warned he was, but his face was open and smooth and there was something in his eye that made me want to be closer to him, so I took a step forward until our bodies were no more than a centimeter apart, and felt his hand close more tightly around my wrist. He tilted his chin, this time upward, until his lips were so close to mine that the thought of kissing him filled my mind. I had never wanted to kiss another man, had always believed - even though my faith in God had been destroyed by the war and by the books that preached reason over religion - that attraction between two men, homosexuality, was an illness of the mind, or a weakness of character. And yet here I was, standing in a darkened garden, our only light the yellow, half moon and the glow of the party through the patio doors, pressing my body against that of another man whilst my brain bubbled with thoughts of kissing him, holding him, feeling his body and letting him feel mine.

I did not dare move, but in the end I did not need to. He leaned ever closer, rising on to his toes so that he could run his long, impossible nose against my jaw as he whispered reassurances to me, an act which seemed more intimate in its way than a simple kiss could have been at that moment.

“I saw you watching me,” he murmured. “And I saw the look in your eye. But you do not need to be afraid, Rosey, there is nothing to fear. I can feel it too, the pull between you and I. It is not common, but it is important. I think it is fate.”

His lips grazed against the stubble of my cheek as he leaned higher, his hands clamped onto my arms tightly as pressed his mouth to my ear.

“Come home with me, Gui Rosey.”

It was a command, not a question, and he said my name, again, like it was something delicious and obscene and I had no choice but to nod and turn my head in search of those lips which, when they met mine, I could not bare to part with.

The kisses, which I thought would be furious or aggressive, being between two men, were in reality feather light and I was shocked by the tenderness and the reverence of Victor’s lips. He kissed like a person in love, like one baring their soul, and I received them with as much returning reverence as I could summon, stroking his cheek once he had freed my arm from his grasp, instead choosing to press his palm to my chest, like a seal upon my heart.

When I felt the shudder run through his slight frame and heard and felt the sob leave his mouth and enter mine I thought for a moment that I had hurt him, even though our kisses were soft and careful, but when he pulled back from my lips I could see that there was something making him shake that was not pain, at least not of the physical sort, for there was a yearning pouring forth from him and a desire in his eyes that I knew I would have to surrender to.

“Come home with me, Gui Rosey,” he said again, his voice deeper and roughened from our passions.

And I did.


	2. Chapter 2

The rooms of Victor Bauer were as chaotic as his outward persona and are, to my mind, worthy of some attention here. Even as full of wine and lust and longing as I was that first night, I could not help but stop and stare at the strange living space before me.

Bauer trotted ahead of me into an alcove that served as his bedroom, attempting to pull the sheets of his bed into some sort of order as I stared at thebooks that covered every wall, books that bowed the flimsy planks of the bookcases, and the additional piles of books upon the floor, spilling across the rough boards in places and serving as perches for plates and mugs in others. Where there were not books there were jars of brushes and paint powders and oils and canvases and sheets of paper pinned to the walls. And a myriad of half finished paintings, the easels of which, I realised with a smile, were mostly made from stacks of books and older canvases.

The wardrobe in the corner by the bed was bursting with a strange array of clothing, some of it distinctly feminine, and the single large armchair and the sagging bed were both covered in aging, but brightly coloured, pillows and throw rugs. It seemed like the sort of space that most of the aspiring artists in Paris tried desperately to create for themselves - to generate the appropriate, artistic atmosphere - but unlike those men who were aiming for an aesthetic, Bauer’s rooms had a shambolic truth to them which suggested that they had been grown, rather than planned or thought out.

The look of concern and what might have been shame that I saw on Bauer’s face when he turned from the bed to face me confirmed to me that his living space had not been designed according to any sane plan, and that he was not used to visitors, nor entirely aware of how well his surroundings suited him. It also made my blood race in my veins with desire and the need to hold and protect him. I wanted to cross the room in swift strides and take him in my arms, but I could not. The confidence I had felt as we had kissed, and as we had left the party (the very picture of nonchalance), had faded along with the wine as we walked through the streets to Bauer’s home, and I was left with a deep, aching need to be with him and continue on the path that our kisses had set before us, but with seemingly no way to take that first step.

He too seemed to sense it, that insidious unease, because he crossed to the small cupboard that served as his pantry and retrieved a bottle of wine and two, chipped, porcelain mugs. He placed them on the stack of books by the bed and then approached me, taking my hand in his two and pulling me slowly, non-threateningly, toward the bed. His hands were small and delicate compared to my large one, but surprisingly calloused and sure, which, in that strange moment, reassured me.

“Come,” he said, his voice light and soft as he brought me to the bed, sitting me down on its edge like I was an invalid in his care. “You can do the cork.”

He pushed the bottle into my hands and I smiled up at him, my heart speeding as he smiled back coyly. I do not doubt he could have managed that cork on his own - I have seen him open many bottles of wine since - but I was grateful for the task, digging my pen knife in and pulling the cheap cork free in three twists of my wrist. He held out the mugs and I poured us each a generous amount before he handed me my measure and put the bottle back upon its perch.

Bauer sat beside me on the bed, the soft, lumpy mattress dipping and forcing us into proximity, our hips pressed together and shoulders touching so that I could feel the heat of his body radiating outwards, enveloping me. I gulped at the wine, though it was cheap and burned my throat, but lowered my mug when I noticed Victor do so, turning my body to try and face him, my chest tight with anticipation.

He brought his hand up to my cheek, such a tender gesture that it caught me off guard, though I had done just the same when we kissed in the garden, and it was my turn to shiver involuntarily at the electricity that crackled through us both. He pressed his lips to mine, a strange sensation for even though his lips were soft the hour was late enough for me to feel the bristling hairs that roughened the skin of his face, a sensation which created its own brand of electricity and sent my mind spinning in to a world entirely unknown. But one which I wished to learn more of. 

His mouth moved slowly, lazy and close lipped against mine as he continued to stroke my cheek with his small, strong fingers, but with his other hand he began to push my jacket from my shoulders, followed by my braces until I realised that several of my shirt buttons had been unfastened and his hand was sliding across my chest, bitten fingernails scratching against my prickling skin.

I pushed my face against his, desperate for more - more of him, more of the sensations of need and rightness and rippling heat that were surging forth from him and washing over in to me like wine into a chalice. But when I lifted my hand to his shirt front, to undress him as he was so deftly disrobing me, my fingers pressed against the hard, flat plane of his chest and I faltered, like one expecting an extra step on the stairs and stumbling when their foot hits the landing instead.

I have had, I am not proud to admit, a great number of lovers, but until that moment I had never put my hand to the chest of a lover and not felt the softness of a breast under my palm and in that first moment I found it did trouble me.

I pulled back, turning my head away so swiftly that Bauer, whose eyes were closed, fell against me, his nose bumping my cheek bone and his lips sliding against my jaw, opening in confusion.

“Rosey?” he asked breathily, but I could not answer him.

I did not know what I could say in the face of his wanting. I wanted it too, though I did not know what it was, only that I needed to be a part of him even whilst my reason screamed at me that I was wrong, that the man who I thought I was would not do this. Gui Rosey would not do this. Yet as the seconds passed my lips began to burn in the absence of his touch and I realised that in fact I did not know myself at all and that the Gui Rosey who had inhabited my body for the last thirty-five years had been a stranger - and he had been wrong.

“Rosey,” Victor crooned in my ear, his hands flitting over the skin of my face and neck like moths against a lampshade. “My Rosey.”

I turned back toward him, asking the question with my eyes that my mouth could not formulate and I watched as the smile stretched across his beautiful, alien face once more as he nodded sagely, like he knew my thoughts and my fears and held all of the answers.

He lifted the mug of wine to my lips, forgotten as it had been in my lap, and I drank like a man dying of thirst until nothing remained. His own wine had fallen to the floor, bleeding out onto the uneven boards like a fatal wound and he let my empty mug fall as well, bouncing when it should have broken, and rolling through the wine to leave a trail under the bed. And as I watched it all seemed so very important, though I didn’t know how. I am sure Victor could have given me a dozen reasons why the image of red wine staining wood and drizzling from two chipped and battered mugs was of vast significance, smiling and laughing all the while. I am sure it would have made sense in his mind, and that I could have believed him.

I was not permitted to muse for long however because Bauer’s lips were kissing a path from the corner of my jaw to my lips and I opened to permit him by some reflex, feeling his tongue slide over my teeth to stroke inside my mouth, languid and strong and wet, kissing the way no lover I had known ever had, as if he truly cared for me.

He removed my jacket, my braces and my shirt without once breaking the kiss and my skin flushed with heat despite the chill in the air. When he lay me down on his bed his hands directed me firmly until my head was against the pillows, he then tugged roughly on my trousers and I felt a jolt of heat in my loins that surprised me enough that I began to kiss back in earnest, losing my inhibitions along with the last of my clothes.

Those kisses, in the way of such acts of passion, seemed to last an aeon and mere seconds all at once, and when he moved his mouth away from mine it seemed too soon, until I realised that he was sliding down my body to tug off my shoes and threadbare socks, followed quickly by my trousers and pants, leaving me naked, exposed and pale amid the garish colours of his bedclothes.

I tried to cover my nakedness with my hands but he stopped me with a shake of his head and watched, his pale eyes bright and sparkling, as I lay there, stretched out before him like a virgin for sacrifice.

He was, I realised with some distress, still clothed, but as I lay paralysed on his bed he slowly removed his garments - the cream jacket and white shirt, cream trousers, socks and shoes, and his underthings, until he stood before me, shamelessly naked, matching a childish naivety at being nude with a blatant sexuality that was unnerving.

His shoulders were surprisingly broad for one so slender, his muscles lean, his skin tight and youthful, the ribs and hip bones visible in the way common to boys still in adolescence. The suit, ill fitting as it had been, had aged him, as well as disguising the sweep of his narrow waist and rounded hips and thighs. The very image of him was confusing, boyish yet womanly, and I wondered (for the first time but not the last) if he were perhaps intersex - a child of the Roman gods - with his chest that was flat, if hairless, and hips and skin that recalled to my mind Une Odalisque, a queen, a goddess and something more.

It made my heart rate increase, like an athlete anticipating the starter pistol and (though I am sure you do not wish to read this) in that moment I would have offered up my body to him, to do with as he pleased. But he was not the sort of man to demand such a sacrifice, or with any desire to cause humiliation. In public, I learnt over the months that followed, Victor Bauer would insult and scold and deride his fellow artistes, but never to cause them shame. He had a gift for bringing out the best in those he chose to nurture, and his sharp remarks were served to that purpose. If one was truly despised by Bauer he simply erased them from his existence. But on that first night, as I lay beneath him, my body on display as it had never been for any other artist, I fancied that I filled his existence, not through anything I had achieved, but because he willed it.

He turned from me back to his pantry and for a moment I believed that he was fetching more wine, especially when I heard the drag of thick glass against the wooden floor. Instead he reappeared before me with a bottle of olive oil in hand, and climbed onto the bed, throwing his leg over mine to straddle my thighs, our bodies so close to touching, yet he held himself bare centimeters away.

The sight of his beautiful body above mine caused the confusion and fear to rise again, and he sensed the change in me, cocking his head to the side to examine me, like the pigeons did each morning from their nests upon my window sill.

“There is no need to fear, my Rosey,” he whispered to me gently. “Very few are lucky enough to meet the mirror of their soul, and by such chance! We must not spurn Fate when she has handed us such a blessing. It would be blasphemy.”

“Mirror?” I asked him faintly, trying to process what he was telling me and failing abysmally. “Bauer, I have never... I am not...”

“And yet you feel it,” he told me, rocking his hips forward but still keeping our bodies apart by the fraction of a hair. “You are mine, Gui Rosey - my Rosey - just as I am yours. I know it to be true. We must follow the passions that are pulling at us, it is the only way.”

“But I have never...” I tried to explain but my tongue was heavy in my mouth and the image of him, knelt above me like a fantasy from the depths of my psyche, was turning every argument I might have had into meaningless syllables inside my head, and it was not difficult for him to show me the error of my fear.

“You have never,” he repeated, his voice on the edge of mocking and gaining fire as he spoke. “So, you have never. There was a time in your life when you had never tried to walk, when you had never written a word, when you had never sat down to pen a verse, when you had never tasted wine or inhaled tobacco or touched your own penis when it grew hard! Your life has been full of ‘never haves’ Monsieur Rosey, I can see it in the slope of your shoulders and the fear in your gaze and I feel it in the need that saturates your spirit and I shall not be one of your ‘never haves’, Monsieur. Not tonight.”

His voice had increased in both speed and volume as he spoke and, above me as he was, the stubbornness of his jaw was evident and the look in his eyes as he gazed upon me was a maelstrom that I could not hope to understand.

I feared that he needed me to say something in return but what, I ask you, could I say in response to such a compelling argument? Even so many years later it is burned into my skull and I not only recall the words but the way he delivered them and the way his bare chest heaved as he spoke so passionately. And then, when I opened my mouth, he did not allow me to respond. Instead he lowered his body, only so slightly, until our bodies were pressed together, and the words that I could not summon in any case came out as a desperate moan.

He rocked his hips steadily as he lowered himself down until his mouth could latch on to my neck. I tried to breathe but could not convince my lungs and throat to cooperate as every fibre of my being focused on the sensations of his lips and teeth bruising the skin over my jugular and the indescribable heat and friction of his skin against my own.

He did not cease until I was twitching and (I must admit) whining in my need, releasing my neck with a wet smack as he sat up, grinning toothily. He grabbed up the bottle of oil from the mess of blankets and pulled the stopper free with his teeth, spitting it across the room with a crow of laughter that my body echoed desperately. My laughter increased as he began to drizzle the oil over both of us, a moaning giggle that wobbled on the precipice of hysteria from the intensity of the physical contact and the building sense that my mind and soul and heart were being linked with this man’s, the bond tightening with every touch and passing moment.

But once the mirth had erupted, I could not seem to contain it, let alone force it to stop. It was the second time in under twenty-four hours that I had been covered in oil and it felt like a baptism.

He poured the thick liquid over my stomach and chest and, when he was apparently satisfied, carefully set the bottle down on the floor. The predatory look in his eye gave me pause but then those petit, dextrous hands began to slide up and down my torso, spreading the oil until I shone in the lamp light, like a sculpture he was still in the process of fashioning and was not yet satisfied with.

He spread the oil freely, ensuring that I was well coated - and moaning desperately - before he lowered his body over mine once again, the oil making us slide easily. He started out slow and languid but our pace soon turned frantic and everything about the scene became bestial and crazed. Our kisses were a messy clash of tongues and teeth and when we could no longer kiss we breathed heavily against each others mouths and my brain vaguely registered the fact that he smelt and tasted of wine and sweat and musk and tobacco but also of oil and gouache paints and, strangely, the faint, warm scent of the bougainvillea flowers we had hidden amongst in the darkened garden.

It was not long before I succumbed to my body’s desires but he moved against me with increased vigour through my orgasm, forcing the waves of pleasure to continue on after my body had lost its ability to tolerate the stimulation. I could feel his own desperation in his panting breaths and wire tight muscles and I grabbed hold of his hips roughly to stop myself from falling apart but my fingers digging in to his flesh triggered his own release and I gazed up at him as he threw his head back, his hair free of its ribbon and beginning to twist and curl about his face and neck, damp with sweat and yet so utterly perfect.

I had never seen another man orgasm before. This was certainly not how I had imagined witnessing the act, but it was the decree of Fate, or Victor’s decree, and it sealed him to my heart. I was his Rosey and already I could not imagine living my life outside of his company. 

My brain was starting to recover from our passions and I moved my arms heavily up to his chest to hold him to me in a fierce hug that made him laugh raggedly. He pressed tacky, sentimental kisses to my chest until I started to squirm and then bounded from the bed to retrieve a paint streaked cloth to clean us both with, smiling as he did so, glowing with more than just the oil, but like a child who had discovered something amazing and had then been told that it was theirs for the keeping.

“How old are you?” I asked him, and he blinked at my sudden question before throwing me an impish smile.

“Twenty-six,” he told me, lips twitching and eyes dancing with mischief.

“And is that true?” I said, returning the smile.

“As gospel,” he replied with a wink, throwing the soiled cloth over his shoulder and dragging the blankets and sheets out from under me so that he could cocoon us both in their warmth.

We were still slightly greasy from the oil and smelt indecently of sex but I could not bring myself to care. He pressed his hand into mine and our bodies melded to one another’s with the utmost symmetry, and my last coherent thought before I fell asleep was the epiphany that the many pieces of myself - whilst technically being all that was needed to create a whole person - were only now slotting into place in the right order.

My first coherent thought upon waking was that I was terrifyingly in love.


	3. Chapter 3

My dear student,  
Forgive me for the pause in my writing, I had to take some time to compose myself after reliving the memories I related to you and this morning I have found moving even the small distance from my bed to my desk to be difficult, not for any physical reason, simply because my mind has slipped into the melancholy of remembrance. I did not that the pages I wrote to you yesterday were absent from my desk when I eventually came to it and so I assume that you took and read them last night after you brought me my evening brandy.  
I hope... I do hope that the things I related to you were not out of line or distressing in any way. I know that in these times people are far more easy about relating such matters but I apologise if my words were unwelcome. I fear I have become somewhat prudish with age, but the tale of my meeting Victor spilled forth with such power that my mind had not the time to censor the words that flowed. It is the way of such strong memories to tumble forth from one’s brain without the permission of the conscious mind and I feel somewhat lighter now, knowing it has been documented, and knowing that I am about to continue in my narrative.  
The late morning light is shining through my windows now just as it did that morning so long ago and I hope that when I see you this afternoon I will be able to give you a testament of all else our relationship was, rather than just its carnal beginnings.  
And so...  
I awoke that morning to the slam of a door. Sunlight was streaming through the apartment’s two small windows and bouncing off several tarnished mirrors which, I have no doubt, Bauer had positioned around his rooms to improve the quality and the quantity of light he had at his disposal. His home was even more delightfully chaotic by daylight and after a moment my eyes found the man himself, striding into the room with a newspaper and an armful of foodstuffs. He let the bread, round of cheese, and small assortment of vegetables tumble onto the kitchen cupboard but did not let go of the newspaper, snorting at it instead and shaking out the pages in search of whatever article must have already caught his attention.  
“Idiots,” he mumbled to himself, “thinking that yet another new government will stop the crisis! Idiocy! They would imitate the Russians’ brand of Socialism - as if it was socialism at all! - and ignore the starving people they should be serving, and the fascists creeping up behind them all the while! And they call me a madman!” he ranted, attempting to read the paper and set the coffee pot to boil all at once and nearly igniting his finger instead. “Argh! Idiot!”  
“Are you alright?” I called, suddenly very much awake and bounding from the bed to his side in time to see him suck his burnt thumb into his mouth, his eyes wide with surprise.  
“I’m sorry,” he said, his tone suddenly soft, like a boy trying to avoid a scolding, his words muffled by his finger, his eyes focused on my face, large and blue and innocent, despite the fact that my body was bared before him.  
“Did you forget I was here?” I asked him, trying to make my words seem casual whilst my heart ached at the thought that he had recovered so easily from all we had shared the night before. But he caused me no such disappointment.  
“No, dearest, no! Of course not! I am sorry that I woke you. And that I frightened you. I burn my fingers with startling regularity as you can see,” he held up his hands, dotted with burn scars, calloused and stained at the fingers from years of mixing and blending his paints and inks. “It is my distractible nature.”  
He waggled his eyebrows at me, his pale eyes dancing with the same mischief and affection as he had shown me when we met, and a chuckle bubbled through me even as I began to blush at the way his gaze had begun to travel down my body.  
“I should...”  
“ -put on the robe hanging by the door?” he suggested, completing the thought for me, and I nodded, unsure of what else I needed to say to a man who seemed to know me so well after so short an acquaintance.  
He laughed quietly, the air puffing out through his nose, and he turned back to the stove, carefully lighting the gas with a match that he then used to light his cigarette, scooping coffee from a paper bag into the percolator with little precision. He completed the tasks with such a flourish that my eyes were drawn to his strange choice of clothes - trousers tight at the waist but loose and flowing from the hips and, instead of a jacket, a short cape such as I had seen the ladies of fashion wear - and I began to laugh, until I pulled the robe over myself, the silken fabric tight over my shoulders which were so much broader than his own. How could I laugh at his attire when I was dressed in something that would have looked at home in Violette’s boudoir or a cancan girl’s dressing room? Not to mention that his dress, as exotic and strange as it seemed, suited him beautifully, whilst I simply looked absurd.  
Bauer twirled again, snatching up his news sheet and turning to face me, his smile stretching wide as he took in my bizarre appearance, but the look in his eyes was appreciative rather than mocking, which caught me off guard, so that I blushed and lowered my own gaze.  
“If you do not have your own robe,” he told me saucily, “we shall definitely need to pay a visit to the costume mistress at the Grand Guignol and have her measure you for one in this style. The shorter length suits you very well indeed.”  
My skin burned at the compliment but his response was to walk forward into the empty space that had formed between us, wrap his arms about my waist lovingly, and press a reassuring kiss to the centre of my chest, an act that calmed me, excited me and terrified me all in one moment.  
“I have a robe,” I mumbled, pressing my nose to his freshly oiled hair, restored to its slick tail, as my brain, still not fully awake, struggled to understand what he was asking of me.  
“Then we must remember to pack it with your other belongings,” he explained, before I had even thought to ask. “When you move here.”  
At this my brain reeled and I pushed him away instinctively, blinking against the vertigo that was suddenly threatening to overtake me. His face held some hurt but mostly understanding as he guided me to his armchair and pushed me down into the sagging seat.  
I remember that he spoke to me soothingly of practicalities rather than affection - that economically we would both be better off sharing rent - and that two artists living together would surely produce works of uncommon genius, and that no questions would be asked in his neighbourhood, so deeply set within Quartier Pigalle as it was. He assured me also that he had no intention of advertising himself as a homosexual gentleman and that I need not fear that I would be painted with such a brush either if I did not wish it, and at this I raised my eyes in confusion.  
He was kneeling between my legs, his eyes large and imploring, the love obvious in every plane of his face, and I wondered at the sadness I could hear in his voice as he repeated that he had no intention of letting anyone know of his true inclinations or feelings for me.  
“We would not be arrested, if it were known,” I suggested, and he smiled wanly.  
“There are worse things to fear than the law, I think.”  
“We would be outcast?” I asked, and this time he nodded.  
“I am already an outlier among the Surrealists,” he said gravely, “for I refuse to enter into their discussions on superiority of manhood, and because they suspect me on the one hand of being a sexual pervert, and on the other of being entirely neuter. They have not yet come to a consensus on which they find more distasteful so I await their verdict patiently.” His tone had grown biting and hard with sarcasm and even though he was comforting me I felt my own need to comfort him growing, but remained still.  
“Is it so bad as that?” I asked, wondering how the men who I so admired for their liberal world views could be so closed minded as to fail to recognise the brilliance that was my Bauer.  
“Quite,” he whispered in a voice that made my chest ache. “They are quite phobic of my kind, of any who might call in to question their own manhood and virility. But oh, my Rosey... Art is my life. And Paris is my home. If I were forced to leave my home again, made to feel that I was unwelcome in the galleries and gatherings of people who at least share my passion for visual creation, it...”  
“ -would be no life at all,” I supplied and he nodded deeply, resting his cheek on my knee and holding my leg in a strange embrace that was the very image, to me, of a child abandoned. “Left again?” I asked after a pause and he laughed silently, his eyes closing against the pain that I could see in him despite his smile.  
“I am an Austrian,” he said simply. “My mother and her family, like the vast majority of my countrymen, are devoted Catholics. I did not come to Paris simply for the culture and dancing girls, Rosey. It was more out of necessity.”  
I could think of nothing to say to that revelation so instead slid my hand down to grasp his, feeling his fingers wind between mine until the closeness calmed us both.  
My mind was still a mire of doubts and anxieties, even as the warmth of Victor’s body against my bare leg leeched away some of the fear, I had so many questions in need of answers, which he seemed to sense. We had not known each other for a full twenty-fours hours yet but he had already developed the ability to know my thoughts, a talent greater even than his artistic vision.  
“Have you heard of Freud?” he asked, his thumb stroking the back of my hand leisurely.  
“I have,” I nodded, “but I cannot admit to having actually read any of his work.”  
Victor grunted, his eyes still closed but his smile aimed in my direction. I looked at the closest stack of books and was able to pick out three volumes with the famous psychoanalyst’s name on the spine.  
“Many of his theories are not only ridiculous but dangerous,” he told me with the air of a man quoting his own firmly held belief. “He is quite obsessed with sex, which cannot, I think, be entirely healthy. But his study into homosexuality... there are some points there which sit comfortably with me.”  
“Such as?” I asked quietly, not wishing to upset his new, dreamlike mood.  
“He believes that all of us incorporate aspects of both sexes, that on a basic level we are all attracted to both sexes, or at least have the potential to be, before the dominant trait of heterosexuality asserts itself. Homosexuality is perhaps an inversion of the norm but it is biological and not an illness or a sin, nor a perversion, nor weakness. It is not a fault,” he said, his voice rising as he squeezed his eyes more firmly shut. “It is a facet, and it is not something that can be changed. Not in me at least.”  
Those final words held so much sadness that I leaned forward and pulled the younger man up and into my arms for a proper embrace, ignoring the way his knees pushed the flimsy robe askew, such was my need to restore to him the joy that the world should never be allowed to crush so callously.  
The fear still bubbled within my breast but it was secondary now. I wished to be one of the so-envied, so-idealised Surrealists, discussing ideas and writing poetry that would shock the bourgeoisie and change the world, but more than any of that, more than anything I had ever thought I wanted, I was compelled to enmesh my life with Bauer’s until we were one creature, one beast, as we had so obviously been designed to be.  
“I will need to borrow a suitcase,” I told him simply, pressing my lips to his temple, a gesture I had never offered another human being before that day. “I have one of my own but that shall only be enough...”  
“ -for your papers but not your clothes?”  
“Yes.”  
He tilted his head to smile up at me and I noticed that his eyes were rimmed with red, a sight which made my own eyes prickle with the vague threat of tears. I pushed them down however and tilted my own head so that our lips were properly aligned and I could kiss him with greater ease.  
The scratch of his unshaven chin against mine, a rasp that was unlike any sound I had ever heard, sent a thrill through my being and I knew it had had a similar effect on him by the way he squirmed in my lap and pressed his hands to my face.  
It seems redundant to repeat that his kisses, our kisses, were different from any I had experienced before but it is a memory that has stuck so firmly in my mind that I cannot help but dwell upon it. It was not that he was a man and therefore different from my previous partners, although the new sensations that being intimate with a man brought with it were certainly intense and mind altering. It was not that I had suddenly decided that it was better to kiss a man than to kiss a woman. No. It was, I think, the fact that it was Bauer. My movements, which were often stilted and awkward with others, were like the flowing lines of a ballet dancer’s body when partnered with his.  
Our bodies fell into sync as if by the habit of long practice and yet we were relative strangers. And Victor, my Victor, kissed with such intense passion that it did occasionally frighten me. For all of his outward confidence his kisses were often needy and desperate, at other times timid and passive, yet he always somehow managed to match them to mine.  
We kissed for some minutes until he suddenly leapt from my lap with a squawk that had me desperately searching for some sort of intruder, or spider, but instead he hurried to the stove and pulled his bubbling pot of coffee from it recklessly, adding a few new scald marks to his hands in the process.  
“You idiot, Victor!” he berated himself and I watched with amusement as he flustered about the apartment looking for clean mugs before he dove down onto his knees to retrieve the ones we had used the night before.  
I scowled in distaste at the sight of him licking the dried wine from the rim of his cup but he shrugged at me carelessly and poured the boiling coffee with obvious delight, trying to save his fingers but also quite evidently excited to hold his beverage. And it did smell delicious. He knew a man, he told me, a Turk who sold him the most delicious coffee in Paris at half its retail price and, when I tasted the coffee that he placed carefully in my hands, I had to agree with him.  
He sat himself down artfully at my feet as we drank, letting the silence wash over us comfortably for some time until I noticed that he was picking delicately at his cape.  
“Why don’t you dress like this all of the time?” I asked him, gesturing at the flattering trousers and feminine blouse and cape. “Why did you choose to wear that ill-fitting suit last night when you have at your disposal such beautiful garments?”  
He looked at me for a long, hard moment before replying, the playfulness gone from his body language and his voice serious.  
“Fear,” he told me simply.  
“Fear?” I asked. “I cannot imagine you afraid, not truly. You are an artist. Surely your attire need not be linked with your sexual preferences? And Violette described you as a madman and a liar, and you are an artist! Surely you can dress as you please.”  
“Did she really describe me so? Dear Viol, bless her,” he murmured wistfully, cocking his head to look at me. I turned my own head in imitation, which made us both begin to smile wanly, but then he turned away and the connection was lost. “I know that my fellow artists can not physically hurt me, and I am, as you say, a good enough liar to carry off any outfit I choose I suppose, but I do not wish to be shunned, and you do not understand the depth of Breton’s hatred of homosexuality. And he influences people who would have no qualms about doing physical damage to my person. So I present to them as masculine a character as possible, and frighten them only in ways that I know they can handle. But I do admit, those suits are...”  
“ -wearing?” I asked and he turned back to me with a grin stretching his lips wide before throwing his head back to cackle at my poor attempt at humour.  
“Indeed! Wearing such clothes is horribly wearing. The attire is tiring! Oh,” he cried, looking back at me, “but I love you!”  
My heart fluttered at those words, despite my trepidation, because I knew already that I loved him - law and reason and society be damned - and to be reassured that the affection was reciprocated seemed like some sort of fairy tale. Not that I have ever read a fable with protagonists like we two, though it is a fine thing to imagine.  
His smile deepened as he stared at me, his eyes back to twinkling, and roving over my barely covered form, slurping his coffee in a way that was intentionally noisy and insulting to the sensibilities but seemed delightfully endearing to me because I could see that he was trying to be infuriating.  
“After coffee,” I told him. “You will help me move my belongings?”  
“And then introduce you to the Surrealists, perhaps? I shall wear my ugliest coat, just for you!”  
He laughed at my excitement and, even though he warned me that they were flawed individuals, as human as myself, I was thrilled at the prospect of meeting them. Almost as thrilled as I was at the realisation that I was moving in with Victor Bauer - a man whom I loved fiercely and completely yet in ways I did not fully understand. I had never been one for adventure, had always waited for life to come to me (which is no way to live) and my one piece of true good fortune, as far as I could see, had been meeting Victor, but now I felt the desire to go forth and create my own experiences, even if the main adventure of my life - my relationship with Bauer - was mostly a covert one.  
Bauer’s presence made everything seem simpler, easier, more achievable than I previously imagined - even falling in love - and I vowed to do what ever he asked of me in order to help that love flourish and survive.  
Sadly, I have never had much talent for constancy, how ever hard I have tried, or for the keeping of vows.


	4. Chapter 4

We did not in fact meet the Surrealists until the next day thanks to the fact that Bauer, after spending several hours helping me move my smaller belongings and sell my larger ones, declared himself thoroughly sick of the outside world, took up a brush, and retreated to a corner of his rooms. Feeling drained by the exertion myself I did not begrudge him the need for time alone and so made myself comfortable in the room’s singular armchair and took up my pencil and paper.

  
I am aware that I am not numbered among the great poets and writers of my age, I have no delusions of grandeur or mistaken beliefs that my work will survive me long. But the words that began to flow from my mind to the page before me that afternoon were certainly better than most I have written since - better than any of my published works.

  
I would love to be able to prove to you so but they, like the best parts of myself,  belong belonged to Victor, and I do not know what has become of them.

  
They were not in my usual style, they had no sharp points or intricate word designs to carry them forward, they were poems that somehow encapsulated my newly found self-understanding. I filled notebooks with such verses over the next several years and showed them to no one but Bauer, who would read them silently and never comment on them in words, only in kisses, which always left me feeling strangely unsettled.

  
He commented happily on other poems of mine, by which I mean, criticized brutally where needed and praised when it was appropriate, but those poems were different - they were for others, for the world - and Bauer saw the world with more clarity than most and therefore made a useful editor. But the private poems, as I came to think of them, they were something apart.

  
I do not dare to try and recreate that first poem. I remember the sentiment of it, like feeling the edges of an object in absolute darkness, which one knows well yet cannot describe by touch alone, but I do not remember the exact phrasing and I know that any attempt at recreating it would be clumsy at best. That poem, perhaps more than any other, belongs to Victor, and I wrote it as I sat in his dilapidated arm chair, watching him paint with a strange mix of vigour and dreaminess, the mirrors and the late afternoon light creating small sparks of refraction around the room, tiny glimpses of rainbow that he seemed to be recreating on his canvas.

  
His hair was once again escaping from its ribbon, curling in tendrils about his face and framing his large eyes and prominent cheekbones in a way that I would have thought was affectation had I not watched each lock slip free quite accidentally as he rubbed his hand across his forehead, or tucked a brush behind his ear for later use.

  
I do not know what terms I used to describe him in that poem - they were likely sentimental and overly romantic - and I struggle now in describing him at all. He was always something other, a strange assortment of features which on their own would have been odd, and which all together should have created something grotesque, yet fit together on his face with absolute beauty. His personality too was strange and uncertain. He saw the world through a different lens, I often thought, perceiving and experiencing a wider range of emotions than I or any other person did, and it was an honour to be allowed to be witness to him. Even when he seemed a maze of contradictions through which there was no true path he was a wonder to behold.

 

He was confident in himself when it came to matters of politics and intellect and was aware of his strengths and weaknesses as an artist and spoke of his craft with candor and great maturity for a man in his twenties. He seemed to project a persona of confident, (if slightly unhinged) certainty, yet I alone was privy to his moments of self-doubt, fear and intense self-loathing. Even as I watched him paint I saw him call himself an idiot for his colour choice, and a fool for his subject matter. He was often changeable, but, I realised, therein lay a large part of his charm.

  
As dusk settled its shadows over the city I stood and began to gather up the collection of glasses, mugs and plates that had found their way around the room, making my slow and roundabout way to his corner. I could see his body flagging and his eyes, which had been half-lidded for some time, were beginning to close too much for him to work effectively, but he was painting on resolutely, his mind focussed and completely unaware of my presence.

  
Under the pretense of taking his empty plate from him I set the piece of paper with my poem upon it next to his painting palate and glanced at his work. Upon the canvas was a strange assortment of coloured lines and circles, converging upon a diamond that was cracked down its centre but still held together somehow, despite the damage to it. It pulled at me somehow, in a discomforting way, as if he had given life and form to my anxiety. It was beautiful and frightening, like its creator.

  
I did not know what to make of it so carried on with my tidying and set about washing the crockery, knowing that there was nothing left to use for our evening meal except the single plate, bowl and spoon I had brought with me from my old lodgings.

  
I became quite caught up in the menial task and when Bauer wrapped his arms around my waist from behind I jumped and nearly smashed a plate before recovering myself and spinning in his arms to face him. He tilted his chin upwards, his lips angled toward me, and I took his hint and kissed him, enjoying the faint groan that I heard in his throat at the sensation of my tongue in his mouth.

  
“I am tired,” he told me, his words slurring slightly, his accent thickening, though I was not entirely sure that it was tiredness and not arousal that caused the change in his speech. “Come to bed with me.”

  
It was not a question and I obeyed it as the order that it was and stayed in bed with him until well after sunset, though we did not in fact sleep. That came later, after I had made him an omelet and he had opened a bottle of wine and we had talked ourselves into a stupor, speaking of nothing but the most simple things. And my final thought that night as I drifted into slumber, facing the sleeping form of my lover, was that I most definitely needed to bathe come morning.

  
And when the next day came I did just that, with Bauer for company, and we set out into the world, dressed in our inconspicuous suits, to finally meet the infamous Surrealists.

  
~

  
I had anticipated a café, or some small gallery, salon, or apartment to be the setting of the Surrealist’s gathering that day. I had not counted on Bauer’s knack for being acquainted with every artist in Paris or the fact that some of those artists were people of renown. I had certainly not expected to find myself in the Galerie Pierre Colle, at the exhibit of one Salvador Dalí, surrounded by the what was by far the most ground-breaking, popular and forward thinking art of our day, shaking the great artist’s hand and stammering to him that I was a fan of his work.

  
He blinked at me like some sort of bulbous-eyed fish as I continued to stutter my appreciation for his art, at the completeness of his vision, how comprehensively he conveyed the surrealist ideal of the waking dream. I babbled like a fool until Bauer finally swooped in to excuse us, his hand on my lower back as he told Dalí that his latest work was brilliant in concept and execution - “The concept of time as a subject for an artist, who would have thought it? Truly original” - but would do better to be less publicly enjoyed. Dalí shrugged but his expression was knowing and as Bauer led me away from him and toward the bar I wondered at the coolness between them.

  
“What did you mean?” I asked him as he guided me around the groups of men and women, all dressed far more formally than we two. “That his work would do better to be less popular.”

  
He grimaced and did not reply until we had reached the end of the room, and the alcohol provided for us. He had become increasingly agitated during our brief time in the gallery, surrounded by Dalí’s art and admirers. Even though he had introduced me to several artists and writers of note, including Pablo Picasso himself, and despite his easy outward manner, I imagined I could feel the anxiety within him, the same anxiety that bubbled dangerously within my own chest, simply by being surrounded by so many people.

  
“It is nothing,” he told me once he had acquired a whiskey for each of us. “He is a genius and he is well aware of his superior skill. My work is... underdeveloped, compared to his. My education was not on a par with his, nor my natural ability, and no amount of reading and study on my part will ever make me the sort of artist that he is so naturally. And he has something that I fear I shall never have,” he told me forlornly, an odd sadness darkening his face. “An ease in the spotlight. A desire and will to be known and celebrated. He stands out, whilst I, for my sins, only want to fade. And I am not even adept at that.” He paused but I knew not how to comfort or console him and simply waited for him to continue with his explanation, which he did eventually. “A year ago I held an exhibition and he came, which increased the number of people exposed to my work, I suppose, but...”

  
“-he was not appropriately appreciative?”

  
Bauer snorted but nodded.

  
“I myself told him all that was lacking in each piece. But he suggested that I might do better if I was less concerned with politics. He does not like to entangle himself in political leanings, he would like to ensure that he appeals to the widest possible audience and I cannot say that I approve.”

  
“You disapprove of him because he is popular?” I asked, wanting to know more of his opinions but not wishing to upset him.

  
Instead he gave me his madman’s smile and clinked his glass against mine.

  
“Correct. But when you put it like that it makes me seem petty,” he chuckled. “I think I dislike him mostly because he suggested that I needed a muse and insinuated that his woman was available if I desired her.”

  
I was inwardly appalled by such a notion but the exaggerated disgust on Bauer’s face made the laughter boil out of me, the nerves and shock bursting forth as he continued to pull horrified faces and whisper to me of the abject terror he had felt at the mere suggestion that he would be interested in sex with another man’s partner whilst that very man watched.

 

“Can you imagine,” he whispered, wide eyed and speaking behind his hand like alady at court some century ago. “Being intimate with a woman, with anyone at all, and having their lover watch from his chair in the corner, urging you on with a scopophilic smile upon his face and a day old baguette making a tent in his trousers? Guh!”

 

I fought down my amusement at his dramatic tone as he stuck his tongue out played up his mortification, but my curiosity had been piqued and with the aid of the whiskey in my belly I questioned him further.

  
“Have you never had a female lover, then?” I asked as discreetly as I could manage, aware that we were surrounded by people who we both wished to be accepted by, but he shook his head with continued exaggeration, his face scandalised while his eyes twinkled merrily.

  
“I have only had one lover before you,” he said, leaning close to whisper the words into my ear, his breath tickling my skin and sending shivers down my spine. “And he was very much a man.”

  
I felt the heat building under my collar and wished that we could excuse ourselves together until I had my passions back under some semblance of control but before I could tell him of my feelings, or perhaps because he sensed them, he rocked back onto his heels and downed the rest of his whiskey with éclat.

  
“I have to piss,” he told me bluntly, looking up into my eyes with an expression that was designed to appear guileless, yet to me seemed thoroughly wicked. “Wait here and try not to stutter at anyone.”

  
I tried to argue but he was gone too soon, slipping away like a sprite with no real substance to his form, and I looked about the room feeling the panic rise once more. I wanted to be there, had been near desperate to make the acquaintance of the Surrealists, but that did not lessen my agitation at being surrounded by so many strangers.

  
I tried to make my way toward the open balcony doors, hoping to excuse myself under some pretense, that I needed the fresh air perhaps, but only managed three steps before I was intercepted and a hand thrust into mine by a man who I immediately recognised as André Breton, a writer I had idolized for over half a decade, one of the greatest and most renowned of the Surrealists. And he was introducing himself to me!

  
“Ah, Monsieur Rosey, a pleasure to meet you,” he said formally, pulling himself up to his full heigh until he stood just taller than me. “You arrived here with Bauer, did you not? And you are old friends? There are no secrets from Breton. I am canny, you see, and can tell that you are obviously old comrades. It is in the way you stand together, your body language, it is the language of old friends who know each other to the core. Perhaps you can shed some light on your mysterious friend? Are you too claiming Austrian extraction like our Bauer?”

  
“Well, no, sir, I, that is, we...” I stumbled, not wanting to give away any of Bauer’s secrets, even to a man I hoped to be liked by.

  
“Ah, but your accent is quite Parisian now that I hear you speak,” he said, flashing a smile that was all teeth and pushing a fresh drink into my hand with a false chuckle. “How clever. Quite a mystery for the mind of Breton, the pair of you. And I was told only a moment ago that you are a poet, yet I do not know of your work. How can that be, when I pride myself on knowing all of the writers of note in this beautiful city?”

  
“Well, I...”

  
“Are you an ‘underground’ poet?” he pressed, though what he meant by such a phrase was beyond my knowledge. His demeanor was outwardly charming but something around the tightness of his eyes sent sirens wailing in my mind and I did not dare trust him. He was more intelligent than I and quite determined to get to the truth of mine and Bauer’s existence. “Many of us have long suspected Bauer to be of that ilk. Is that where you met?”

  
“No, indeed, I, that is...” I floundered quite terribly, until Bauer returned and stepped in to save me.

  
“We are old comrades, Breton, how very astute of you. But not from any connection of homeland or anarchist movements or romantic notions of that kind,” Bauer smiled, turning the matter into a joke with a flick of his wrist whilst Breton scowled down at him. “No, nothing so intriguing as that, I’m afraid. We served in the Great War together, brothers in arms.”

  
“You fought in the war?” Breton asked us, his eyes narrowing in suspicion as he tried to discover whether Bauer was telling him truth or fiction.

  
I turned to Victor, whose face seemed so sincere that even I believed him for a moment. His demeanor turned melancholy and his eyes wistful in one flutter of his long lashes, as if he was remembering times gone by and comrades lost on the front line, and I was forced to cover my desperate need to laugh by putting my hand over my mouth and looking away, sure that I had blown his fable in the doing but unable to restrain myself.

  
“He doesn’t like to speak of it,” Bauer informed our interrogator in a confidential tone, “there is still so much pain. So many who never made it home.” And Breton responded with an understanding murmur, suddenly convinced that we were indeed veterans of that first, great, European upheaval.

  
I, meanwhile, felt ready to burst from the laughter building up within me, and raised my hand to Victor’s shoulder to cue him that we very much needed to leave. He patted it consolingly and gave it a reassuring squeeze but obviously had no intention of finishing quite yet.

  
“Such difficult memories for all of us,” he said seriously. “And the leaders, the politicians, our great men, they all swore to us that it would never happen again, is it not true, Breton? And yet here we are, with the darkness rising once more and yet the world turns a blind eye to the danger.”

  
“Oh, I concur!” Breton exclaimed, bemoaning the fact that the right wing factions were creeping back into power in the political arena, and enquiring whether Bauer had seen the latest news from Germany, and was it not distressing.

  
“Hitler,” Bauer spat and the venom in his voice sent chills down my spine. “I loathe that I was so much as born in the same country as that man. He will fill the world with death and despair if he is not stopped soon, and Italy shall follow him into the mire. And to think,” he suddenly exclaimed dramatically, clutching my hand in a way that made me feel on the edge of hysteria. “We fought to ensure that such tyranny would never rise again. It is distressing in the extreme, Breton, I know you understand it better than most men, you have the philosopher’s mind and the artist’s heart, you know how it effects both the common man and our society as a whole. But now, I fear, you must excuse us a moment.”

  
Breton nodded vigorously, completely mollified by Bauer’s performance and Victor guided me swiftly through the gallery to the exit, ushering me across the hall and into a small office. He did not remove his arm from around my back until the door was shut and the key turned in the lock but once he had ensured our safety he fell against my chest in a fit of delirious giggles, the sound of his laughter harmonising with my own quiet hysterics. It had been a performance worthy of the best playhouses in Paris and I could tell by the thrumming of his muscles as I held him to me that he was riding a wave of adrenaline and was extremely pleased with himself.

  
“How did he believe that you and I fought in the war together? You were barely past childhood when the war ended and I am nearly ten years your senior! How?” I asked him, struggling to focus on anything but his warm body against mine as my mind reeled and my body swayed nauseatingly. “How did he believe you?”

  
He shrugged, and I forced myself to focus on the weave of his jacket, a ridiculously ugly brown thing that he had chosen that morning with the sole purpose of making me laugh. He was so very small inside that jacket and at the same time too large and alive and bright to be contained by it and I held him as tightly as I was able, feeling him squeak and laugh as I pressed him to me, his arms trapped to his sides in my embrace.

  
“They just do,” he mumbled into my shirt, his nose nuzzling against my heart. “There is no reason to it. They just do.”

  
Which was the truth of it, I suppose. And just as they accepted Bauer’s strangeness (though they were ever-wary of his inconstancy) the Surrealists accepted mine, through my association with him. We were a mis-matched pair - an oddity - but a certain degree of oddness was expected in such a company, was virtually compulsory in fact. When I was reticent it was because I was a man of deep thought, plagued by my wisdom and the depth of my insight. When I spoke with such speed that I left myself tongue-tied, or laughed to the point of irrationality, it was because I was an artiste and therefore walked the line of madness (and shared rooms with Bauer which, I was told several times, would surely send any man insane).

  
And so that was how it all began. By 1932 I was officially a Surrealist and could not imagine a better life than to spend my days writing and debating with men such as André Breton, Yves Tanguy, and Benjamin Péret. My nights and spare moments were likewise filled, but they were filled mostly by Victor who was my heart and soul and the beauty of my life. The danger of discovery was ever present but it became, to me, like radio static - inconsequential and easy to ignore. While Bauer fought daily with maintaining appearances of heterosexuality and normalcy, adapting himself and hiding himself in order to pass unnoticed and unremarked upon in normal society, no one questioned my sexuality or passions, and I became foolishly complacent, allowing other evils to enter my mind, new dangers that I thought were blessings, until the world that had been built lovingly for me, began to crumble all too soon...

 

I think perhaps I should leave the story here, at least for tonight.


	5. Chapter 5

You have read my first book of published poetry and it makes me feel that perhaps I do not need to recount to you that part of my life. I thought last night that I might have written enough, that I had demonstrated to you my understanding of your feelings, your concerns, and that you are not alone, that there is nothing wrong with being as you are, whether that be homosexual or bisexual, or anything else. I have told you of how I met my lover, how greatly I adored him, how we made the decision to live together, despite the dangers of our time and circumstance. That should have been an end to it, I thought last night, and yet I wake this morning and feel that I must continue, even though it would have been easier to leave you with a simple story and the possibility of a happy ending. Now that I have begun it must all flood forth I fear and I must apologise to you now for what is to come.

And so we return to the summer of nineteen-thirty-one. I became firm friends with Breton that year, mostly due to the fact that I was too shy to argue against him on most points, but also due to his genuine affection for my poetry. He took a great part in nurturing my writing and honed it to a satirical point, and it was he who made it possible for me to publish, and he who ensured that I would be included in the intimate gatherings and the published collaborations that the Surrealist group produced. He was a mentor to me, despite the fact that we were the same age, and as the year of nineteen thirty-two commenced I found myself spending not just most of my days but a great many of my nights in his company.

Victor was not always invited to these gatherings, preferring galleries, theaters or the company of Violette and her friends at clubs and coffee houses - or in most cases, more increasingly, his own company - and it was not until after the fact that I realised how I had mistreated him. When we were together our personalities shifted until they fit flawlessly together and we shared a single mind - our thoughts synching so perfectly that we could finish one another’s sentences without pause - but in public he became increasingly skittish, forever pulling at his clothes and trying to walk so close beside me that it would cause us both to stumble. At public engagements his mask of self-assured mischief was always firmly in place but after the event was done he would too often crumble in exhaustion.

Those nights, I now look back upon with deep regret, were most often the times when I would be so inebriated that he was forced to support me on the journey home. Alcohol was for me, as it has been for so much of humanity, a useful social lubricant, allowing me to speak and debate and laugh with my peers without the feeling in the back of my throat that I was about to vomit over the people standing closest to me. Bauer, when he was there, would drink simply to avoid being sober as the group around him laughed and debated what was and what might be sexual perversion, what was acceptable, what a man should be allowed to do to a woman’s body, the place of sex in art.

As the months bled together I became something of an expert among our group as a man of significant sexual experience but, having seen the anger with which Breton responded to any opinion that homosexual sex was no more perverted than heterosexual sex, I was careful to keep the name and sex of my current partner a secret and refrained from mentioning him in any way when the discussions of sex began, going so far as to spread the rumour that I had given up sex in favour of masturbation as an act of non-conformism. A ridiculous falsehood which, needless to say, men like Breton, Tanguy and Eluard toasted as genius. I tried not to mention those discussions to Bauer because he did not respond well to them, a fact that I tried to respect even if I did not understand.

Bauer was by no means a prudish man, he was often the instigator of our love making and happily expressed his preferences in bed and told me how the things I did to him made him feel (often in toe-curling detail), but when he talked of sex it was always couched in terms of our relationship and strengthening the bond between us. The acts for him were framed in the context of romantic love rather than lust or passion - sensuality over sexuality perhaps - and he lived by his own set of rules; rules which I struggled to learn.

I recall, for instance, one particular day. We had spent the hours lazily, waking late and barely moving from the bed except to use the toilette and to fetch wine and bread from across the room. He had kissed me from my forehead down to my navel, stopping on his way to lick and suck my nipples in a manner that always thrilled me, and I had anticipated the moment when he would reach for his trusty bottle of oil so that we could frot against each other and achieve orgasm in our usual way, but he did not.

Instead he continued his kisses downwards until he was face to face with my erection, his eyes crossing slightly as he tried to look at it at close range in a way that, when I look back upon it, I find absurdly funny, but which at the time left me panting. He was eternally fascinated by the appearance and slide of his palm against my uncut member and he took it in hand with a look of captivated concentration. The first lick of his tongue shocked me and when he continued on the intensity made my head spin and I began to moan loudly, which seemed to spur him on further, taking me deeper and whimpering around me, and within minutes I was incoherent and unable to warn him of my impending orgasm, climaxing whilst black spots danced before my eyes and I fought for breath.

It took me several moments of deep breathing before I recovered myself enough to realise that Victor was not with me on the bed but sitting crumpled on the floor beside it, coughing and choking, his naked frame looking so fragile and his ribs shaking. I very nearly fell from the bed in my hast to kneel by him and when I tilted his face up toward mine I could see that his eyes were red and watery, but that he looked rather proud of himself as well. I laughed as I pulled him into a hug but balked at kissing him and he reached for the wine and drained what was left in the bottle before clearing his throat and grinning at me coyly.

“I’ve only ever done that for one other, and not for a very long time,” he admitted, averting his eyes and beginning to blush and I dragged him back onto the bed and into an even tighter embrace, trying to wrap my mind around this new snippet of information.

I had spoken to him of my own childhood and youth - the years of near starvation with my mother, the day my father died and I discovered what his name had been and that I had inherited a small amount of money, enough to afford a place to live whilst my mother died slowly of a cough that just would not clear. And of my forced enlistment in the Great War (I hit the beginning of my conscription period in 1916, which was rather bad timing on my part, I suppose) and the accident during my training which had left my shoulder scarred and weakened but had saved me from the front line. He knew all of this about me and more, yet I knew nothing of his beginnings, or why he had left his home when he did.

He was circumcised, which I thought odd for the son of a Catholic mother, and carried a multitude of faint cane scars on his back, buttocks and thighs that marked him out as a man who had once been a very disobedient schoolboy. He had once had a lover but none since moving to Paris some five or six years ago, and he turned deathly pale at the mention of intercourse.

I held him until I felt my heart begin to settle back into an easy rhythm and eventually became aware that he was rocking subtly in my arms, trying to relieve the hardness pressed between his legs. The thought entered my brain that it would be polite to repay the favour he had given me but found that I could not. Not for lack of love but, I admit, fear of the unknown. Instead I pushed him into the mattress and kissed him with all the passion I could muster, thankful that all I could taste on his lips and tongue was wine, and pressed my hand down his torso, feeling him shiver and squirm as my hand found its mark.

I could feel his yielding, the need to be taken and cared for that radiated from him and into me. So often I was the one desperate to be looked after and allowed to submit when we made love, but that night, no more than six months into our affair, it was his turn and he lifted his hands until they lay above his head on the pillow, a sign of his surrender, writhing under my touch until he came undone with a sharp gasp.

He fell asleep very soon after and I found myself watching him as he slept, my breathing slowing to match his as I wondered at the myriad of facts about him that I was ignorant of. His emotions I could feel as if they were my own, and his surface thoughts - such as his reactions to art, politics, the latest sniping between Breton and Dalí - all of that I could read and reflect so quickly that to others we often seemed to be thinking as one. But his memories - those I was not privy to.

He knew mine, could read me faster and more astutely than I could him and knew my every weakness and indulgence and how to exploit it for our mutual pleasure, but he still remained, somehow, a mystery. Until the day I pushed him too far, and saw how deep those faint scars went.

~

It was December of nineteen thirty-two and I was alone in our rooms, attempting to write, though it was not such an easy task when Bauer was absent. He was out, doing the strange array of activities that kept his brain occupied. Among them was a visit to the studio of Pablo Picasso to tidy it in his absence and send some incomplete works on to him, for the man was unable to keep the space clean or keep a cleaning woman for more than a month, and Victor was apparently a man he had trusted for a number of years, news which amazed me greatly.

Victor was also a frequent visitor to the theaters in our neighbourhood and rumours abounded as to what he surely got up to, closeted in the dressing rooms of the chorus girls, but they were always closed lipped, unwilling to give up the secret. I trusted him indelibly, knowing that he had no sexual desire for the female form, and he eventually told me that he spent the time drawing their portraits for five centime a piece whilst they regaled him with gossip and news - the truth behind his ability to be always up-to-date on who had fallen from favour and who was the height of fashion in art and society in general.

That afternoon he had also been to visit Violette, to see her rehearse a new piece at the nightclub where she worked and I expected him, on his return, to bring with him food and a cheerful demeanor, for that was usually the case after time spent in her company. On this particular day, however, it was most certainly not the case.

“What does this mean?” he yelled at me from the entranceway, not bothering to even shut the door before he began to shout. “What do you mean by this? What am I to think?”

He was waving a small booklet in front of him, slamming the door and beginning to pace around the room in such a distracted fashion that I rose from the armchair with a great deal of caution, trying to see what he was holding that could cause such distress. And then I did see. It was the published transcripts of the Surrealists’ sessions, ‘Investigating Sex’ of which I had been part. But still I did not know why he was in such a state.

“What’s wrong with you?” I asked him, my tone immediately defensive. “What are you to think about what? Make some sense.”

He did not answer me straight away but instead came to stand in the centre of our living space, squaring his shoulders and opening the booklet to its last chapter.

“Your words,” he said simply but with passion. “Your words, Rosey. My God, your words!”

“You are upset that my words have been published?” I countered, seeing his centre of gravity shift to his left hip, knowing that it was a clue, that it meant he was uncomfortable, but continuing all the same. “You were pleased not six months ago when my poetry was published. ‘My words’ you called them then as well. So why are you now so offended that my words are published for the world to read? I did not believe you capable of such pettiness and jealousy.”

He stared at me for too long and I looked into his eyes and saw a deep disappointment, though whether it was aimed at me or himself I could not tell and, instead of responding to me in his own words, he looked down at the page before him and began to read.

“‘I like a woman with small buttocks between which the organ can be inserted as easily as into the vagina... I enjoy the tightness... it leaves ones hands free to caress the clitoris,’” he recited in a monotone, his cheeks flaming.

“What has that to do with anything?” I reproached angrily but he continued, reading portions of my words in which I spoke of the inadequacy of acts like sodomy, masturbation and fellatio when compared to intercourse with a woman.

“‘The point and passion of intercourse is the presence of the woman... All else is inferior...’ Do you really think so little, so basely, of your sexual partners?”

“Shut up!” I cried and he blanched before raising his eyes to mine, the pale blue orbs burning with fire. “I was playing along! Agreeing with them, you fool, so that we could continue to do what we do without suspicion!”

My voice was loud, pitched to intimidate, but he refused to back down and as he stepped toward me, it was I who felt cowed.

“A fool?” he asked me. “I am that, my love. Always. But please do not say that you participated in this vulgarity for my sake. You were petting your own ego and that of Breton’s! You slide like a snake around him, perhaps you should slide into his anus!”

“Now who’s being vulgar?” I sniped but he shrugged at me as if to say that I should see what he so obviously did. “And this has nothing to do with you. I will speak of sex if I please, it is normal to do so and it is the repression of your youth if you think it unseemly. And it is not as if sodomy is a concern of yours. You refuse to engage in it, after all!”

Those words stopped his movement toward me and I immediately regretted them. He was dressed flamboyantly that day and the tailored waist on his trousers and delicately fitted jacket leant him none of the protection that his bulkier suits afforded. He stood before me, thin, young and injured by my careless words and by the words I had been spouting in his presence and in writing for months without a thought that he hated my behaviour for a reason.

He tossed the booklet away without looking, letting it skitter across the floor and bump against the kitchen cupboard as he looked at me, his eyes delving beneath my skin to my very soul.

“You ask me to give up my body to you,” he said softly, “but you do not understand what that means. Because you have no wish to. Even with your lately found ego and confidence and bluster you are still a man built by fear, Gui Rosey. I may be a fool and a madman and a clown, but you... you are becoming as much a zebra as the rest of that herd.”

And with that he turned and left the apartment, sweeping out of the room with great dignity even though I could feel his heart cracking. I stood, rooted to the floor, watching after him as he disappeared, but I did not follow until I realised that he had not taken his overcoat or gloves with him and that the night was fast descending. And my Bauer felt the cold horribly.

Without a second thought I threw on my own overcoat, scooped up his winter things, and ran from the building, just as the rain began to fall steadily and apathetically from the sky.


	6. Chapter 6

I searched for several hours with no trace of him that night. It was, at that point in my life, the most fearful I had ever been. Even when I was called to serve my country in war I was not so afraid, for then I had had the youthful belief in my own immortality to buoy me up, now I had nothing but regret.

I went first to the Grand Guignol Theatre, then the smaller theaters and clubs around it, asking after Monsieur Bauer at stage doors, all the while trying to seem like I was only looking for my friend. But he was not there and the looks I received from the doormen, and later the departing dancing girls, told me that they knew there was more between us than platonic love - and that if I had hurt him in any way I would find myself answerable to them.

I even went to the studio of Picasso, knowing that Victor had a key, but it was locked and dark, and he was not at any of the cafes I knew him to frequent either. I was loathe to ask any of his fellow artists - Bauer had spent several years creating a carefree persona, beyond the foibles of common man, and I did not want to throw that character into doubt if I could help it - but as midnight approached I was fast running out of options.

I had walked from one end of the Pigalle to the other and the rain had turned to an icy sleet that had crept beneath my coat to chill my skin but I could not return to the apartment, not without Victor, even as my fingers grew numb, and so threw myself down dramatically against the central fountain in the Place de Pigalle, wondering what it was I could do, or what I would do if I could not find him.

I fancied I could hear his voice calling out to me through the wind and ice but knew it could not be so and brought my hands to my face in despair, looking, I am sure, like a proper, grief stricken poet if ever there has been one.

At which point, I am happy to recount, I was hit about the head with a carpet bag by a woman covered in so many hats, scarves and coats that I did not recognise her until she began to curse me.

“You lice ridden, flatulence talking, fool of a man!” Violette berated me, pulling me roughly to my feet and dragging me by the arm toward her apartment, yelling at me as she went. “He was ice cold, you know! How could you? You know what he is like! How could you!”

She dragged me through the front door of her building and I was finally able to catch my breath and thaw my mind, Violette’s stare holding enough heat and anger to send the cold in my body into retreat.

“You have found Victor?” I asked her desperately, if a touch redundantly, and she nodded curtly before turning and heading for the stairs, not inviting me to follow but not warning me off either, and so I went after her. “Thank you, Violette, thank you. But what is it that I am supposed to know?”

She turned to me on the stair, causing me to lose my balance and wobble two steps below her, looking up into her petite, furious face in search of a clue as to how to fix the trouble I had caused.

“I told you the night I introduced you to him that he is mad. He is not... He is an artist, he feels too strongly and remembers too much. He is my friend, Rosey, and I trusted him to you. He loves you and you have left him wanting.”

I nodded, not sure what else I could do at that point, and she let out an exhausted sigh as she turned to continue the journey up toward her apartment.

I followed her in silence, trying to organise my thoughts and see where I had gone wrong and finally began to realise that not only had I spoken extensively of my ex-lovers in front of Bauer, but I had boasted my experience in front of him as well, and he had borne it because there was nothing else to be done.

More than that, I had spoken carelessly, heartlessly, of the women I had bedded, and several of those women, as artists’ models, were Bauer’s friends. It must have hurt him deeply to hear them spoken of in such terms, and to fear that I might at some point speak of him in a similar manner. It was a terrible self-revelation, to realise how callous I had been, but a necessary one.

“Is he alright?” I asked Violette as we crossed the landing to her door and she looked back at me with more sympathy than I probably deserved.

“I went out for vodka,” she told me, “because he needed something to settle his nerves and take the chill from his bones and we had run out of champagne and rum.”

This was not the answer I had been hoping for, was barely an answer at all, but I pushed down my frustration, and my wet hair from my face, and followed her into the tiny apartment she shared with three other women.

They ceased their conversation when I entered, looking up as one, their bodies still and their eyes sharp as they reclined about the cramped space, like a family of cats, I thought warily, and in the centre, under their protection and care was (though he would hate to be described as such) their kitten.

He alone seemed unaware that there was an intrusion into his private word, sitting upon a threadbare chaise with a patchwork blanket over his legs and another around his shoulders, humming quietly as he scribbled on a piece of paper, his high cheekbones flushed pink from drink and the warmth of the stove at his feet whilst one of the women (Violette’s dearest friend, Jana, my brain supplied for me) stroked his hair. My Bauer. My Victor. I tried to go to him but Violette caught my arm and shook her head, and I watched as she approached silently, pulling a bottle of cherry brandy from her bag along with the vodka as she stepped over the legs of her housemates carefully, like a hunter stalking a deer.

“I am back, my sweet,” she said in a gentle tone, and I watched as his eyes rose slowly to meet hers, unfocused and childishly uncertain. “I brought you some Eau de Vie.”

She lifted the bottle for his attention and he smiled sleepily at it, but after a moment his eyes shifted from the alcohol to where I waited anxiously by the door. And those eyes - those crystal, clear sky, eyes - focused on me, became instantly sharp and wide at the sight of me.

“My Rosey.” The words slipped from his lips like champagne, light and bubbling, and he sprang from the chaise, tripping in his haste to reach me with a wan smile flittering about his lips. “My Rosey.”

I tried to speak, but my tongue was sluggish in my mouth and I settled for bringing one hand forward to caress the warm, soft skin of his face, tucking a damp tendril of hair behind the delicate shell of his ear. Across my other arm I still carried his overcoat, gloves and scarf, which were by now thoroughly drenched, and therefore useless, but I held them out to him all the same.

“I brought you your coat,” I managed to explain on my third attempt. “I did not want you to be cold.”

His face split into a proper grin at that and he took the sodden items from me reverently before handing them to a confused (and disgruntled) Violette.

“Oh, my Rosey!” he whispered, placing his hand over my cold one as it caressed his cheek. “I am sorry. What must you think of me?”

“I think that I hurt you,” I replied. “And I am the one who is sorry, my Bauer. I have been a fool, worse, I have been an arse. Can you forgive me?”

He responded by rising up onto his toes and kissing me on the lips chastely, an act which shocked me for the forgiveness and affection inherent in it and because it was done in front of four witnesses. I hesitated in returning the kiss for a bare second before I realised that such hesitancy was what had been eating at Bauer since our relationship began. For all his talk of not wishing to be known as a homosexual man, for all his understanding of the dangers and the need to be circumspect, for all of that, pretending that we were not romantically linked had been eating at him, destroying his joy and hurting his spirit.

It was that knowledge which freed me to kiss him properly, drawing him closer to me in relief and love as his tongue delved into my mouth - which I very nearly choked upon when one of Violette’s friends whistled at us and another began to clap.

I felt myself begin to blush and when Bauer ended the kiss I worried that he felt ashamed of our display and so was flooded with relief when he looked up at me with his madman’s grin firmly in place before turning to the women with a flourish and a bow, which lead to more clapping and laughter.

“They know?” I whispered questioningly into his ear.

“Of course they know, they’re not idiots,” he replied, kissing my cheek.

“None of my friends suspect,” I reminded him but that simply made him laugh, low and mischievous.

“True. Because they are idiots,” and at that it was my turn to laugh, the relief and tension escaping with the amusement as I did.

Violette was still eyeing me suspiciously, but she took Bauer’s shift in mood as a good sign and began to fill glasses with cherry brandy as Bauer spun back to me for another kiss, pressing himself against me before squawking as the rainwater from my clothes seeped into his shirt. He tugged me toward the chaise and sat me by the stove, pressing me down against the worn upholstery and fussing as he removed my coat, jacket, scarf and gloves. The women continued to chuckle as they watched him coo over me and I felt unsettled, both by their amusement and because I had not expected to be treated with such immediate affection.

For the next hour he refused to behave as if anything untoward had happened, drinking enough to make himself giddy as he gossiped with his friends, talking to Jana in his native Austrian,  bairisch dialect \- but he held my hand firmly all that while, his body pressed to mine and his grip tight - until one by one the women declared the hour late and drifted toward their bedrooms. Due to the continued rain, and the lateness of the hour, we were ordered to stay and given blankets and pillows to make up a bed on the floor and, when Victor finally released my hand in order to use the toilette, Violette descended upon me like an anxious, and fearsome, mother.

“Do not be fooled by his cheerfulness, Gui,” she hissed at me as Victor left the room, clutching at my sleeve to ensure she had my full attention. “He is not as content as he seems.”

I frowned at her, though I had suspected the same, but, in my ignorance, did not consider the words of a woman with little education to be worth as much as my own.

“He is changeable,” I reassured her. “He cycles through moods but knows the trick of rescuing himself from them. I have, as you pointed out, left him wanting, but it shall not happen again. He will be fine.”

“No,” she told me sharply. “It is not as simple as that, Rosey, it goes deeper. He saw a doctor when he first came to Paris, did you know that? But, to be honest, the man was his inferior, intellectually. He did not understand Victor and so Victor eventually left and refused to see him again. I barely know what is within his heart and mind but I know that he needs a great deal more support than he has ever been given, or has ever been willing to allow. But he is allowing you,” she said, poking me in the chest for emphasis. “And you must take better care of him.”

“I will,” I promised, and it was very truly my intention but she still seemed wary.

“I have met, you know,” she told me in a softer tone, “many people during my life. I have met one whose body was that of a man but whose head and heart were that of a woman, and lived as such. I know of one who has the body of a woman but who feels themself to be a man in every other respect. But your Bauer...” she paused and I smiled to hear her refer to him as mine. “He is different. His heart, his mind, his body, his everything - it is both man and woman, don’t you think? And it is beautiful - for those of us who behold it, it is beautiful - but it is hard. It is a hard road to walk, Gui, please believe me. You must love with care. And you must be kind.”

She kissed my cheek then, pulling me down so that she could reach without having to strain her neck, then walked in her delicate way toward the bedroom she shared with her friend, bidding me sweet dreams over her shoulder.

I set about creating a comfortable space for Victor and myself on the rug, building a nest of pillows and blankets that I hoped would be enough to ensure us a few hours sleep and when Bauer returned he smiled at my creation and all but skipped to it, wrapping his arms about my neck and pulling me down to the floor and into a passion filled kiss. There was a melancholy about the movement of his lips, even as he poured love into the action, there was an underlying sadness that felt to me like a knife in my heart. Despite his giddy happiness and smiles, my Victor was hurting, and I had been the cause.

We had already removed all but our trousers and shirt-sleeves over the course of the evening and so we tumbled into our makeshift bed just as we were, kissing clumsily as I pulled the blankets over us both, cocooning us in the dark together, warm and safe and separated from the world of reality. We continued to kiss, hands roving over bodies and inside of shirts to skim across warm skin, but we were both exhausted, and Bauer quite inebriated, and so the kisses were an end in themselves rather than a stepping stone to anything else. Eventually our tongues became sluggish and open-mouthed kisses became simply open mouths, sharing breath and faint, drowsy smiles, until Victor rested his head against my shoulder and was asleep.

I knew that the new day would bring with it many questions and discussions as to how we could have a relationship that was both covert and fulfilling, but the main occupation of my mind was the relief at having found my Victor again and that I needed to do whatever was necessary to keep him, and the special bond between us, safe.


	7. Chapter 7

I woke to the swipe of lips against mine, my back spasming against the hard floor, but the mouth upon mine warm and soft as the grey morning sunlight filtered through my eyelids.

  
“My Rosey,” he mumbled against my lips in a singsong voice. “Rise and shine, Rosey.”

  
I opened my eyes unwillingly, hating the grit and scratch of my eyelids after so little rest but when the first few, blurred moments passed, I looked up into the face of the one I loved and my body flushed with relief and love.

  
“I love you,” he said sweetly. “I love you, my Rosey, my poet, my strange one.”

  
I let the words sink in, enjoying the contours of his face - one cheek pale and the other red from where it had been pressed against my shoulder for most of the night - and his eyes still half-lidded from sleep.

  
“You call me the strange one?”

  
“Very much so,” he said nodding seriously. “You went out in a rain storm to search for me. You are the strangest man I know.”

  
He gave his most dazzling grin and I had to smile back, even as my heart was pulled taut by the sadness already seeping up within me, a recipe of emotions that I could sense but not make sense of - which was as frustrating as it was heartrending. I was supposed to be a poet, and ten years his senior, but I could not put words to what I knew he was feeling, could not properly comprehend his struggle or what I was supposed to do to help him. I only knew that I had to try.

  
“You cannot simply smile at me and pretend there’s nothing wrong, you know,” I told him, and he pursed his lips in a thin, pale line, staring at me long and hard.

  
His hair fell about his face in loose waves as he leaned over me, the longest locks brushing against his bare shoulders, and I realised that he must have removed his shirt during the night, a strange action which left him exposed and shivering, and which meant that I could not help but pull him toward me, wrapping him back into the blankets and my tight embrace, though he cackled and shrieked at being held so fiercely.

  
“You will catch your death,” I growled into his ear, kissing along his jaw without a thought for our location on the floor of Violette’s apartment. “You shall die of a cold and then what shall I do? How shall I survive without you, grieving yet knowing that your demise could have been avoided if you had just kept your clothes on for a change.”

  
His giggling was delirious by that point and he gasped desperately that he could not help it, that he always slept nude, as I well knew, and that it was my fault for radiating too much heat and sleeping too close. I continued to kiss and tickle his skin until we both froze at the sound of a door creaking open.

  
“It is only me,” Violette said drolly. “Jana will be up in an hour or so. The others are sleeping late. I have to go and sit for Monsieur Arp,” she sighed. “The man is so tedious, but he likes my breasts.If only I could remove them entirely and gift them to him, it would save us all a great deal of grief and trouble. No doubt I shall end up as another headless sculpture, an idol for the male gaze. But at least he pays well.”

  
Bauer sat up as she spoke, grinning at her description but obviously interested in the man she was talking of.

  
“Jean Arp?” he asked her, kneeling up in our nest of blankets, his thin torso pale in the grey of the winter morning. “How can he be tedious, he is a great artist. He has redefined abstract art, and he told Breton where he could shove his pen not two years ago.”

  
Violette’s lips twitched upwards as she took in his eagerness and bare chest and I could see quite clearly in the morning light that she felt, for my Bauer, a great deal of love.

  
“Would you like an introduction then?” she asked, watching as he began to practically bounce with excitement, his eyes wide and sparkling.

  
“Would you?”

  
“I will ask,” she told him, trying to keep her expression sensible and not give in to his contagious enthusiasm. “He may say no. He does not like the Surrealists. He hates Breton.”

  
Bauer simply shrugged and climbed trippingly to his feet to take her hands in his and place a delicate kiss upon her knuckles.

  
“Then we shall have something in common,” he whispered conspiratorially, at which Violette did smile, swatting him away and shaking her head, promising to ask Arp if he would be happy to receive a visit from an admiring artist as she threw on her coat and hat and made her way out of the flat.

  
When she was gone Victor returned to our makeshift bed excitedly and finally agreed to put on the shirt that I held out to him, babbling about the changing directions within the world of abstract art, and the new life that artists like Arp were breathing into the medium of sculpture.

  
“If you really hate Breton, why do you stay with the Surrealists?” I asked him when he finally paused for breath, and he shrugged his shoulder delicately before leaning over me and pressing a firm kiss to my forehead.

  
“Because they are more exciting,” he said plainly. “And because my politics, in terms of the dangers inherent in the rise of fascism, align more with theirs. Because surrealism was founded on the belief that human imagination is a powerful force that needs to be unlocked, to be freed. Surrealism is about freedom from taboos through the unfettering of the imagination, of fantasy, artistry, creativity, and I live in hope that one day it will be just that! And because,” he said, taking a deep breath to calm himself then dipping down to kiss my lips, slow and wet and full of promise, “they serve far superior wine at their parties.”

  
I laughed, his face still no more than a breath away from mine, and he answered with a quick kiss to my nose before sitting upright again and beginning to button his shirt.

  
“And, yes, I can,” he told me when he had finished with his shirt and retrieved his waistcoat from the arm of the chaise.

  
“Can what?” I asked in confusion, trying to find the connection in our conversation that would lead to such a statement.

  
“Yes, I can just smile at you and pretend that nothing is wrong,” he said, smirking down at me. “And not only that. I can make you believe it too.”

  
~

  
The walk back to our own apartment was a silent one, but not uncomfortably so, and once the door was shut and bolted behind us I took him in my arms and kissed him with more passion than I realised I was capable of. It felt utterly incredible to feel his body melt against mine, soft and yielding save for the one part of him that was decidedly hard, and hot and demanding.

  
I lifted his legs until they were wrapped about my waist - Bauer, as always, understanding what I needed from him - and carried him to our bed, trying to kiss him as I did so, even though it meant stumbling over the multitudinous piles of books (which took up nearly twice as much space in our tiny home since I had moved mine in with his) until we hit the bed and fell together.

  
The room was freezing, so cold that our mingled breath came out as harsh clouds of steam as we panted against each others lips, shivering yet struggling to remove clothing out of a desperate need to be as close as humanly possible.

  
I sat above him, straddling his hips and struggling to remain grounded and present despite the fact that his erection was pressed into the sensitive flesh behind my testes. I swallowed a moan as he bucked up in to me, closing my eyes tight as my mind began to spin.

  
“Stay with me, Rosey,” he whispered raggedly as his nimble fingers unbuttoned my waistcoat and shirt, pushing them from my shoulders whilst his hips maintained their rocking rhythm into my most sensitive of parts. “Please, Rosey. Stay. I do know how you feel, I do feel it as you do, even though it paralyses me with fear and pulls at my stomach. Please-” he gasped as the head of his erection pushed against my crotch, his hand resting on me, where he had been busily pulling at my flies, and the moan I had been holding back escaped from within me, vibrating in the still air, my body balanced on the precipice of orgasm.

  
“Rosey,” he whimpered, moving his fingers deftly past my trousers until they wrapped firmly around my aching member. “My Rosey. Please stay.”

  
“I- I’m not going anywhere,” I panted, my fingers cramping as I clutched at my thighs, fighting desperately against my imminent release.

  
“But where is your mind?” Victor murmured. “Open your eyes for me, Rosey?”

  
I obeyed, even though forcing my lids apart was, in that moment, one of most difficult challenges I could imagine, and saw him smile, his own eyes barely open but focussed on me. His chest was heaving, exposed to the cold again but this time flushed red with arousal, and his hand began to move swiftly in time with the thrusting of his still-clothed hips until I came undone with a shudder, my release spilling over his hand and abdomen, his movements continuing until I whimpered at the overstimulation.

  
He stilled his hips reluctantly, removing his hand from my open trousers to clutch at the bedding, his intense arousal making him twitch and fidget, his eyes fixed hazily on my face but barely seeing me now. I moved down his legs, pulling his trousers with me until he was naked and spread out on the bed, the very image of wantonness with his louche pose and his belly smeared with my seed. It caused a secondary bolt of desire to shoot through me but my body was still too shaken and drained to respond, and I had other ideas in mind.

  
“Rosey?” he begged, his words slurring with arousal.

  
I gave him no chance to continue his question, pressing my tongue flat against the skin of his shin and licking upwards until I had reached the top of his thigh. He gasped and his body shook, his hands tightening in the bedclothes as I removed my tongue and repeated the action on his other leg, only this time I did not stop when I reached his thigh. I did not allow myself a moment of worry before dragging my tongue over his scrotum, his testes already tight to his body in anticipation of his orgasm. He let out a choked cry which became a series of cries and gasps as I licked my way to the head of his erection to lap at the tip, tasting him and teasing him until he began to whimper and turn his head from side to side on the pillows deliriously.

  
It is a strange thing, to recount one’s first experience performing fellatio, but I am past apologising for this memoir. You may skip over these parts if you prefer but now that I have begun to tell this story, I feel compelled to recount it in full, and this moment, the moment when I took my lover’s erection into my mouth for the first time... it felt like I was finally coming of age, realising that there was something better than pleasing myself - and that that something was pleasing him.

  
I opened my mouth, covering my teeth with my lips as I lowered myself down as far as I could manage. His pubic hair was short and wiry and I ran my fingers through it as I began to move my head, slipping his erection in and out of my mouth slowly and teasingly until he whimpered and grabbed at my hair, thrusting into my mouth feverishly, muttering my name among words I did not understand the meaning of.

  
I relaxed my jaw as much as I could to allow him to thrust into me, the experience far more erotic that I had ever imagined until suddenly he froze, his back arching before he gave another sobbing cry and flooded my mouth with his release, his member pulsing against my tongue in a way that I decided I very much liked.

  
His whimper when I let his spent member slip from my mouth was much softer, a small and vulnerable noise that made me want to take him into my arms and hold him to my chest, but I had a problem. Bauer had taken to swallowing when he took me in his mouth but I had held the salty liquid in my mouth too long to feel comfortable with ingesting it and so sat at the end of the bed, watching as he tried to recover himself, with my mouth clamped tightly shut and my nostrils flared wide, feeling rather a fool and beginning to panic.

  
When it became apparent that he would need at least a minute more to recover himself I slipped off the bed and pulled a handkerchief from my jacket pocket, depositing his semen into it and grimacing at the odd sensation of the liquid, warm and thick, leaving my mouth.

  
I am proud to report that I did overcome my prudishness in this area quite quickly, but that first, awkward occasion still burns in my mind, and stands as a testament to how ill I understood my own sexuality and what I was expecting from Bauer. I rinsed my mouth with a bottle of rough spirits that I found in the cupboard, gulping and spitting into the sink a few times before swallowing a good measure and heading back toward the bed where Victor had only just begun to open his eyes and breathe regularly.

  
I realised, as I sat down beside his prone form, that drinking straight spirits before I had even broken my morning fast was perhaps not the most sensible thing to do and I blinked as my head began to spin dizzyingly. I ran my hand over Bauer’s pale ribs and felt him shiver at my touch but he did not move to cover himself. Instead he stretched his limbs and spine like a sated kitten and grinned up at me lazily.

  
“I love you,” he told me simply, staring into my eyes and, I am sure, reading my fear and apprehension right along with my desire and affection.  
  
“And I you,” I told him. “I only wish I knew how to be what you need.”

  
He nodded at that, acknowledging that I had failed him but not holding it against me or holding on to the pain he had felt at reading my ill-thought words, a forgiveness that was far greater than I deserved.

  
In response I rose unsteadily and walked to the stove, lighting it clumsily and burning my finger, which made Bauer laugh - because burning fingers on our uncooperative stove was his signature move, not mine. I retrieved the booklet from where it had been flung the day before, not wishing to look at my words, or my name on the cover, and flung it into the stove.

  
I heard Bauer gasp and by the time I stood, holding onto the stove top for balance, he was behind me, wrapping his arms around my middle, pressing his body to mine and hard kisses to the skin between my shoulder blades. He kept up the kisses as the stove slowly warmed the room, moving his hands over my body and removing my trousers and underwear as he did so, until I felt his hardness against the crease of my thighs and, to my own amazement, my own body responded in kind.

  
He dragged me back to the bed and pushed me into the mattress and proceeded to kiss the entire length and breadth of my body before slicking us both in olive oil and taking us in one of his small but powerful hands.

  
And when we both finally recovered we gathered bread, cheese, wine, pencils and paper, pulled the covers up about ourselves, and, as the rain began to pound against the window, began to formulate the plan that would allow us to be together in the manner that we needed without raising the suspicion or ire of those around us.


	8. Chapter 8

To my dear ------,

I must say, my dear child, that I am starting to believe that I have never written something so greatly anticipated as these letters to you. When I gave you those pages last night I did not expect to be greeted by you so early this morning, with said pages already consumed and a pot of coffee held out to me like an offering to the gods of story telling. I shall write you more shortly (do not fear, I have resolved that you shall know the story in full) but you should not be neglecting your own studies in favour of my words. You will receive the next chapter of my life only when I have seen your days’ work. You may read this first paragraph alone and no more until I have read over the fruits of your own mind’s exercise today. Only then will I permit you to know of our idea, the grand scheme that allowed us to play Bauer’s game of lies on a larger scale than we had ever attempted before.

The idea began simply enough. We wanted to be able to touch one another in public in a way that was no longer considered socially acceptable for two men, to hold hands and show affection without fear, and so we developed the idea of becoming a living, moving, art instillation. I was a poet - my spoken words are my art - and Bauer had only that morning been expressing to me his love of abstract sculpture and three dimensional art of that kind, and so we came to see that we might be able to turn ourselves into an extension of our art forms.

We could already finish one another’s sentences, our bodies mirrored one another’s, it did not seem so difficult to take such behaviour further. And so, whilst the rain and sleet pounded against our windows and great winds howled through the streets of Paris, we spent the week charting and designing a plan of action complete with rules, boundaries, safe words, warning words and signals we could make to each other if a swift exit needed to be made or we could not finish a prompt.

Bauer went through every article of clothing we both owned and pieced together a series of not quite matching, but complimenting, ensembles for us to wear and I encouraged him to start adding a few of his preferred items as well. He looked ridiculous in men’s trousers, they did not sit well on his frame, and I argued that it was a more striking image if we accentuated his unique figure. He argued that it would make us appear like a parody of a heterosexual couple and so I agreed to adopt a few more fitted items into my own wardrobe, that we might both appear confusing, or androgynous, to those who saw us.

And so Bauer set about taking in my waistcoats and I drafted a short thesis statement that we could use to explain our art piece to those we encountered. And we rehearsed. Victor was an amazing improvisor, creating stories in moments that I could not have planned out even with a pencil, paper and several hours of thought, but there were things that we did need to plan and practice and that is what we did, again and again until, at the week’s end, I found myself standing before the mirror, with Bauer by my side, our hair slicked back, our suits in matching shades of blue, our hands clasped stylistically in a way that wasn’t particularly natural but was obvious and artistic, and our faces coolly composed. I gave his hand three, quick squeezes - I. love. you. - and saw his reflection in the mirror smile as he squeezed my hand in return - yes. yes. - I. love. you. - and suddenly I felt invincible. We were due at the house of Benjamin Péret that night and it was to be, if all went according to plan, the unveiling of our lives as art entitled, ‘Twinhood: or The Found Remembrance of Spiritual Love’, the greatest lie Bauer had ever composed.

We had chosen that title because it invoked the closest possible bond, which allowed us to be as intimate as we liked (within reason, obviously) whilst suggesting that the relationship was not actually carnal. Our performance was to focus on our spiritual bond rather than a sexual or physical one, and that was to be the trick, if we could play our parts convincingly enough.

I did not worry for Bauer, knowing that he would be able to carry off the part and that our physical closeness would buoy him further, but I was anxious for myself. We were going in to a familiar environment and we would know almost all of the people in attendance at the party, but somehow that made it worse, rather than better. These were people who thought they knew me, which made me vulnerable to them, but I was determined to do Victor proud. It was not only he who craved physical touch, or to be allowed to acknowledge our relationship, I craved it too, and this was the way we would be able to achieve it, at least in part.

So, forth we went, palm to palm, into the cold night, each of us shivering with nerves and anticipation, to begin the game.

The door, when we arrived, was answered by Péret’s man, whose eyes flickered to our joined hands only briefly before he walked us through to the main part of the rich apartment, and we were greeted by the man himself.

“But what is this?” Péret exclaimed upon seeing us, and I must admit that our appearance was striking.

Bauer had tailored my clothes until I appeared to have a much younger figure thanI did in reality and his own shape was on display so handsomely in his flowing trousers and fitted waistcoat. We wore matching expressions of aloofness and I allowed Bauer to precede me into the room, swinging his arm around ever so slightly as if to present me to the crowd that had turned to watch our entrance. I saw, in one of the mirrors that lined the walls, that Victor had tilted his head in a manner that accentuated his cheekbones and long eyelashes and then realised that I had subconsciously mirrored the action and that our tableau was more than striking, it was beautiful.

“Why this is art!” Dalí proclaimed, stepping forward and twiddling his moustache in delight, and I saw Victor incline his head toward the man, for if anyone knew about making one’s entire life an act of art, it was Salvador Dalí.

Péret began to clap and soon the whole room had applauded and we were making introductions and displaying our gift of synchronization for the Surrealists, who were, to a man, impressed by our efforts. We were a success, and spent the evening making rounds of the party, soaking up the adoration of the artists and art lovers alike and catching snippets of their conversations and comments.

It was a strange side effect, but our act seemed to make people believe that we could not hear them. I think perhaps it was the fact that we seemed so insulated and enveloped within one another’s presence. That was, of course, not actually part of the act. Holding hands in public with Bauer - walking about in the sight of so many people with my fingers intertwined with his and our gaze so often locked upon one another - it was intoxicating and it made us both behave as if we were truly invincible, safe in our own shell.

And so we heard fragments of conversation as we walked about the room, and what we heard was thoroughly entertaining. From the men we heard such mutterings:

“... fought in the war, you know...”

“... Is it true that they are brothers, then?”

“Yes! Twins who found each other by chance during the war...”

“... is it real or is it artifice?”

“With Victor Bauer who knows...”

 

And from the women something entirely different:

“... There is something most alluring about them, don’t you think?”

“Indeed. The chemistry is palpable...”

“...the way they hold their hands. Is that friendship?...”

“... if it is all an act, just an art instillation, or whatever Dalí called it, I don’t wish to know. The image they make together is stunning...”

“...there is such emotion, such feeling in the two of them. It is... captivating.”

At one point I felt the laughter bubbling up within me until I could barely keep my face impassive and squeezed Bauer’s hand hard for a count of four - Help. - He moved, as if dancing, to stroke his free hand down my chest to my heart in response. It immediately calmed my urge to laugh but made me horribly aware that we were being watched, and that several of the women watching us were doing so hungrily.

Victor’s face, when he looked up at me, was calm and steady - a porcelain mask of unbroken beauty - but his eyes were wild. His pupils were large, almost overpowering the pale blue-green of his irises and held the sort of promises that made me shiver in spite of the warmth of the room. I could see his excitement, the way he was feeding on the attention and intrigue we were causing, and when Breton approached us I prepared myself to put on a show that would make my Bauer proud.

“Monsieur Rosey, Monsieur Bauer,” he greeted us, a smile fluttering restlessly across his face as he stared suspiciously at us through a pair of pretentious spectacles. “And what are we all to make of this fine display, hmm? You must explain it to me in full, I insist. I cannot be left without an explanation, it is my way, I must know all, and you have presented me with a mystery. Explain.”

Inwardly I was grinning like a madman at the knowledge that André Breton was brimming with curiosity on our account, but I kept my face neutral and tapped my thumb against Victor’s questioningly - begin? - and he squeezed my hand twice - yes. yes. - in reply. This was it. If we could convince Breton of our bizarre performance there would be few from among the Surrealists who would dare to question us.

“It is-”  
“-quite simply-”  
“-a new expression of-”  
“-the Surrealist pursuit-”  
“-of life as art,-”  
“-of the free inner will, and-”  
“-the soul’s yearning for-”  
“-a spiritual mate-”  
“-and completion.”  
“It is art, as is-”  
“-obvious to any with-”  
“-eyes to see.”  
“It is-”  
“-Twinhood, or-”  
“-the found remembrance-”  
“-of spiritual-”  
“-love.”

We each took a deep breath, perfectly in sync, and pride fluttered in my chest as Breton stood before us, trying to decide what his verdict would be. The evident chemistry between us was obviously causing him some discomfort, our bodies angled inwards and fingers so intimately entwined, but, despite his manifold failings, Breton was an idealist at heart and the idea of brotherly love and devotion in a world that had rejected such emotions in favour of cold separatism and individualism, appealed to him greatly and eventually he nodded. By the end of the night he was expounding a novel’s worth of commentary to an avid following about the genius of the the living art that was ‘Twinhood’ and I could feel the glee radiating from Victor at our success.

Our success increased with each outing, and in the same measure I saw Bauer’s confidence as a person increase through the contact of our bodies, hearts and minds, and the chance to live more freely as himself. Each performance left us both exhilarated and thrumming with adrenaline and our lovemaking when under the influence of those chemicals and emotions was truly a spiritual experience, teasing one another to new heights of ecstasy (though we never overstepped the unspoken limits Victor had placed upon our physical relationship).

When we met resistance, phobia and hatred (which we did, more than once) we were able to laugh in its face and exclaim: but it is art! Everyone wanted to be in on the secret, to understand what was art, and to be one of the Surrealists. It became like a giant game of Emperor’s New Clothes, and we reveled in it.

This is not to say that our lives were perfect, but it was as close, I think, as I have ever come.

Each week Bauer discovered a new young artist with incredible potential who only needed to be nudged in the right direction - and who made him stare disconsolately at his own work and sigh at every attempt to paint because he did not have the classical talent of so many of the surrealist artists. His forte was in the abstract, exercises in colour and shape and emotion, but he could never see his own genius.

Violette was good to her word and through her Victor met and began to be guided by the sculptor Jean Arp, which increased his confidence as an artist as well as his technique, and he enjoyed significant success when several of his pieces were displayed alongside Arp’s in an exhibition dedicated to the new wave of abstract art, but he could never comprehend that people appreciated his work for what it was. He was never satisfied with his own work, never content, and his self-deprecation was so often painful to watch.

I too suffered doubt with regards to my talent and struggled to get my work published in any circumstance outside of Breton’s direct intervention, which rankled. I often worried over how little money we made. Most of our food was sold to us heavily discounted thanks to Victor’s charm and contacts, but that winter of nineteen thirty-three was a cold and sparse one.

Despite all of that, I woke up smiling each day. I wrote and wrote and wrote, ideas spilling from my mind, overflowing from my brain in a typhoon of imagination and inspiration and, when my second book of poems was finally published, it was praised even beyond our surrealist circle.

Still, books of poetry, and paintings sold at ‘friends prices’, have never lead to fame and fortune, and I worried over how thin Bauer became. At times there was a soft curve to his waist, like the perfect hourglass, and at others there was little to hide the bones of his pelvis which left bruises on my thighs and hips and which he knocked against furniture and easels, bruising himself when he walked about our rooms naked (which was surprisingly often when he was absorbed with his work). When I could number his ribs I always made certain to ask Violette and her friends to ensure he ate when he was with them.

A measure of our financial insecurity eased when we discovered that there were those among the social elite - vapid and near intolerable as they were - who were willing to pay a fee to have us attend their parties, as a work of art. (Which just goes to show you, my young friend, that fools will throw money at anything if you call it ‘art’ or ‘fashion’. A lesson to keep in mind as you soldier forth into the callous world of literary art: confuse them whilst treating them like one of the chosen few who truly grasp the Truth, and they will throw cash at you. If they are the right sort of fool.)

Several of them were ladies who had ‘known’ me before I began my life with Bauer and at first I was nervous about divulging such information to him, but instead of being upset or distressed by the fact that the women who had once paid for my services in their bed were now paying for my services as living art - with Bauer at my side - he laughed. He was aware of how attractive women found us when we dressed to match and stood so close to one another, and he found it exceedingly funny.

He even spoke of it in bed, of what those women wanted from us, what they imagined us to get up to in private, what they wished they could do if we were in their bed and under their command. He was a master at weaving pictures with his words and could set my body ablaze before he had even touched my skin, simply through his words. And how I loved him for it.

So we became a success after a fashion, simply by displaying our bond as though it were a parlour trick or piece of theatre, whilst in private our true relationship bloomed. There were hiccups of course, as must be expected, such as my anxiety when faced with too many strangers staring (which either made me overly subdued or ridiculously verbose) and Bauer’s tendency toward mania if forced to dress and behave in too masculine a manner for too many hours (which led to temper tantrums, midnight wanderings and the occasional rant from atop a table in our favourite cafe or club), but we learnt to cope, and to support one another through any fear and discomfort.

We spoke little of my sexual desires - one of the few things we did not discuss in depth - and I feared to bring it back into our conversation, not wishing to send my love into another panic even though I still longed to deepen our sexual bond.

We did make love, by frottage or hands on one another’s bodies, and Victor became somewhat of an expert in the art of fellatio, grinning like a proud school boy when he was able to unravel me so thoroughly with his tongue and lips and teeth and throat so that I was left unable to breathe and unsure of my own name. I reciprocated, and though my attempts were not as skilled as his, he never complained, and I found great joy in submitting to him in such a way and letting him use my mouth as he wished for his pleasure.

We did not take things further than that, but still I thought about it. Victor had showed me what intimacy could feel like and I wished to be joined with him, my Bauer, in the most intimate way possible. But I did not wish to push him, and so we did not speak of it.

Still, I was happy, and I look back on the year of nineteen thirty-three as a golden year, a year when we loved freely, laughed deeply, and very nearly forgot that the world around us was not as peaceful or happy as we had become. Then nineteen thirty-four announced itself, and we saw more clearly the storm that was brewing on the horizon.


	9. Chapter 9

It was the twenty-second of February, a Thursday, and Victor and I had spent the morning pottering around our room, drinking coffee and kissing and not much else. I was dressed in my oldest pair of trousers and my dressing gown, both of which were stained with ink and paint, and Bauer was dressed only in his silken robe, which provided little warmth on its own but ensured that I could barely keep my hands to myself, and kept him warm with near constant hugs and the friction of my palms against his skin.

It may seem strange that I remember the date so exactly but February of nineteen thirty-four had been eventful to say the least and I had been attempting that day to keep Bauer from heading out into the streets in search of trouble. It had been only two weeks since Paris had been rocked by an attempted fascist coup d’etat and there was still great unrest, not to mention the fact that extreme right-wing groups were beginning to emerge and Bauer was known as an outspoken objector. I did not want him out of my sight when passions were running so wild.

As if the trouble on our doorstep was not enough, the week of the twelfth had brought the first news of the civil war in Austria as well. I did not know how Bauer would react to the developments in the country of his birth but knew that whatever his opinions would be, they would be strong and probably upsetting for him, and I was right, after a fashion. But when he had picked up the news sheets that week and read that the Austro-fascists were overthrowing the government there had been no angry ranting or lectures on politics or socialism. Bauer had pursed his lips and looked very serious, and then refused to discuss the issue with me or anyone else. He read any news bulletin he could get his hands on that pertained to the crisis, but he would not speak of it, and so I had resolved to give him a day of rest, without news papers or civil unrest or politics. But it was not to be.

I had just pulled him down into my lap with a kiss, the two of us slipping and tousling in the armchair as my hand snaked beneath the flimsy fabric of his robe to stroke the length of his thigh and up toward his already semi-erect member, when there was a powerful banging upon our door. Victor squealed and fell from my lap in a flurry of limbs and turquoise silk, which would have been amusing except that the knocking came again, and he scurried to hide in the bedroom while I crossed to the door, willing my arousal to diminish before I had to face who ever was attempting to destroy our front door.

A concerned-looking Violette was not who I had been expecting but it was she who was there when I opened the door, accompanied by the young woman Jana, the Austrian model who I knew Victor cared deeply for, but whom I did not know well myself, and I ushered them in quickly, calling out to Victor that he should stop hiding as I did so.

When Victor emerged, dressed in a pair of my trousers and braces and nothing else, I very nearly laughed at the fact that he had donned those clothes to appear less suspect to whoever might be knocking on our door, but I did not have a chance to tell him that he looked both ridiculous and adorable because Jana, at the sight of him, had burst into tears. She ran to him, speaking hurriedly in Bavarian and falling against his chest so that he was forced to hold her up and guide her to sit in our apartment’s solitary armchair.

He spoke to her, words I did not understand but in a tone which was calm and soft and which I knew well, but she continued to sob, becoming almost hysterical as she tried to explain herself to him, before finally producing a letter from her coat pocket and pushing it into Victor’s hand.

I turned to Violette but found her already in the kitchen, setting a pot of coffee to boil and slicing what was left of our bread for toasting. Her eyes held deep disquiet but she shook her head at me in silent answer to the question I had not asked - she did not know what they were speaking of either.

“Babba?” Victor suddenly yelled, angrily, and we turned to see him shake his head furiously at Jana who was still urging him to read the letter in his hand. “Ned babba! Babba neamd!”

“Aber-”

“Neamd!”

I watched as he stumbled backwards and Jana stood, she now attempting to calm him, speaking low and fast in a language that had suddenly cut me off from the man who was half of myself. He was trembling and breathing harshly through his nose, his face pale against the curtain of his dark hair as he listened to the foreign words Jana whispered to him urgently until finally he opened the letter and looked at whatever words were written there before crumpling to the floor with a sob and a single word.

“Muadda.”

At that I suddenly felt I could move again, freed from the stasis that had held me whilst Victor had been speaking his native tongue. Jana was trying to comfort him, crying again herself, but I nudged her aside in order to lift Victor into my arms and carry him to our bed, lying him gently down and gathering the strewn bedclothes up and over him, trying to stop the intense shivering that had taken over his body.

I could hear Violette trying to calm Jana and even though they were now speaking French I could not understand what they were saying. They were background noise and unintelligible to me whilst I dealt with my lover’s pain. And he was very clearly in pain. No sound left his mouth but there were tears leaking from his eyes and his skin had turned waxy and feverish, and the letter, open now, was still clutched in his hand.

I wanted to comfort him, more than anything in the world, but aside from brushing my fingers carefully through his hair and sitting with him, I did not know what else to do. I did not even understand what had caused his sudden collapse and wracked my brain to try and untangle the mystery, taking the letter from his hand even though I knew I would not be able to read its contents and wondered how staring at the cryptic words could possibly help.

I was wrong however, as the letter contained only a short paragraph at the top of the page, addressed to Jana, followed by a long list of names. I stared at them blankly for a moment before beginning to scan the lists for something I might recognise and felt the blood drain from my face when I stumbled upon a name that I knew well: Bauer.

Bauer, Otto (p)  
Bauer, Catherine (d)

“Victor?” I whispered, but he grabbed my hand, holding tight and asking me in that action not to talk, but simply to be with him.

I nodded, glancing over to when Jana and Violette had made themselves comfortable on the floor by the armchair, speaking softly and crying together in the way women seem to be able to do but that men so rarely have the courage for. Seeing that they were relatively settled I climbed into the bed beside Bauer, pulling his shivering body close to mine, his back to my chest and my hand over his heart, listening to Violette’s murmured reassurances and my Bauer’s quiet sobbing.

As the minutes passed the sobs became louder until, after a time, Victor was crying properly and the tension began to leave his body. I continued to hold him, kissing his hair and mumbling to him that he was safe, that I was there, that I loved him, until eventually, at some point in the late afternoon, his calm returned.  
He turned in my arms until he was facing me and looked up into my face with eyes that were swollen from crying and desperate for reassurance. But to give him that properly I needed to know what had happened.

“Victor,” I asked gently, pressing soft kisses to his cheeks. “Who are Catherine and Otto?”

I watched as he closed his eyes tightly to stop a fresh wave of tears from spilling over and my heart ached for him.

“They are, no,” he corrected himself, “they were my parents.”

“And they are- Oh, God, Victor, I am sorry,” I told him, gathering him to me in a fierce hug. “I am so sorry.”

“My mother is dead,” he said in a small, childlike voice. “Catherine is dead. My father, though I have not called him so for many years, has been captured. He is, was, a politician in the Austrian government. He was very outspoken against the fascist movement.”

“Victor, I am sorry,” I repeated, not knowing what else to say.

“Don’t be,” he replied bluntly. “They hated me. Otto, if he lives through this, will continue to hate me. I do not even know why I have been so affected by this news. I have been dead to them for so many years, why should their deaths affect me?”

The hardness of his tone frightened me. Bauer could be blunt, even to the point of rudeness, but he rarely used so harsh a tone.

“Tell me about them?” I begged him, and to tell you the truth of it now, I am not sure why I felt I was entitled to such information. It was not for his benefit, but I hate to think that I begged the information from him to satisfy my curiosity. I did not expect him to tell me. He did not usually obey orders, but he did that day, that once, and I remember his words near exactly.

“I... I was conceived out of wedlock,” he began in a tone that was conversational but far from light. “My parents married, but it was an unhappy union from the start. My father insisted on a civil ceremony rather than a religious one, no family attended. It was the first blow in my father’s destruction of my mother. Not that she was an angel. A devout Catholic, yes, but an angel... most definitely not. She threatened to slit my throat if he had me circumcised.”

“But you are-”

“Yes,” he spoke over me. “I am, and there is a small scar under my chin to testify how close my mother came to carrying out her threat. They were simply... not made for each other. And not only because she was a Catholic of the old order and he was a socialist and a Jew.

It was for the best that Otto was rarely about. He had no time for me nor any desire to know me better. He was in the middle of his doctoral studies when I was born, that was his real baby, and he refused to live in the same house as me for the first two years because my crying disturbed his study. When he did come to live with us he argued with Catherine constantly. Every word he said to her was an insult and he never failed to remind her of her own worthlessness. She took out her anger at him on me. We were not a happy family.

When I was six tears old my mother and I moved out of Vienna to a country house that my father had provided for us, near the Italian border. I do not recall missing him, but I was desperate for him to be proud of me. He was secretary of the Social Democratic Party at that time and I read every edition of the party journal that he sent from cover to cover, hoping that he would visit and that I would have an opportunity to show my intelligence and loyalty to him. But he did not come and all I had were letters and books.”

He stopped for breath and I took the opportunity to take his chin in my hands and kiss every inch of his face, tasting the tears on his cheeks and feeling the pain that he must feel in relating his story. I wanted to tell him that he did not need to continue if he did not feel able but he looked up into my eyes and I could not speak. His skin was pale save for around his eyes, and his ridiculous nose, and the cleft down to his lips, which were all painfully red and made him look far too young. I held my tongue and gave him a nod to let him know that I would not interrupt, that I would listen and stay with him until the end, and he closed his eyes as he continued his story.

“I was sent away to school in Milan when I was ten years old, the same year my father joined the Austro-Hungarian Army and was captured by the Russians. I wondered for three years why there were no letters from him, because my mother had not seen fit to tell me that he was a prisoner of war, and four years being tormented by my peers for being one of the ‘damned Austrians who started the war’. My teachers had high expectations for me, though I don’t know why.”

“Perhaps because of your vast intelligence?” I muttered but he scoffed at my words, pressing his forehead to my breast bone before continuing .

“I hated that school. Hated the way they talked down to us. Hated being referred to as ‘boy’. Never by name, never Victor or Bauer, only ‘boy’. I confronted my history master on it one day, after having my knuckles caned for my insolence. I told him my name was not ‘boy’ and he suggested that I might prefer the name ‘girl’ instead. I told him I should hate it no more or less than ‘boy’. God, Rosey, but I was beaten for that. I did not even know who I was at that time, was a child, and already they were punishing me for it.

I graduated at sixteen, ahead of the boys my own age, but when I returned to my mother all that she could say was that I had my father’s weedy disposition and was not a real man. She could see that I would be a sinner of the worst sort, she told me, that I needed to become a man before I was permitted to enter her presence. And so I went to Vienna and found my father.

He was... similarly disappointed in me. I told him of my plan to attend the Academy of Fine Art and he threatened to cast me out which, if it happened today would produce no more than a shrug from me, but at sixteen... I still wanted him to be proud of me. We came to an agreement, that I would be allowed to study art on the understanding that when it was done I would begin a degree in law and follow him into politics. He gave me a small allowance so that I was able to rent a room near the academy but preferred that I did not visit him too often. Even though our political leanings were very similar, he was not fond of me. But, I was able to attend art college and whilst I was far from being a star pupil I learnt so much. And I met...”

I saw him waver, his bottom lip quivering as he tried to form the words to tell me about the man who had known him before me. I kissed the top of his head, feeling his body press even more firmly to mine in an attempt to fuse our bodies and minds together so that he wouldn’t have to tell me his story in words.

Sensing his reticence I wished I could tell him that he did not need to continue, that I did not need to know - that suddenly I did not want to know - but he continued speaking and I closed my eyes tightly, focusing on his words and trying to suffocate the growing pressure of tears behind my lids.

“His name was Aloys,” he told me, his voice a raw whisper. “He was... one of my professors. When he approached me one evening as I left the college, and told me that he knew what I was... I thought he was going to hand me over to the authorities. I was so naive, Rosey. I was seventeen. And when he promised not to tell my father - told me that no one understood but he did, that no one could love me but him - God, Rosey I believed him. For almost a year I believed him. And he... we...” his voice cracked and he pushed his forehead against my chest with enough force that I was able to feel the pain of his memories. “He hurt me, Rosey... and when I told him I didn’t want to do that anymore, he... he sent anonymous letters to all of my professors, to the head of the academy, to my parents, and member’s of my father’s political party...”

And in that moment my heart broke. For so many reasons. For a young man whose trust had been abused, who had been abandoned and hurt and manipulated. My heart broke for that man who was barely more than a boy and who, when the man he had thought he was loved by exposed him publicly, had also been faced with his parents’ rejection.

He told me, though his words now were broken and jumbled, how his options had been prison, an asylum, or to flee. His mother had given him the necessary funds to get as far as Switzerland but on the condition that he never attempt to contact her or acknowledge their relationship. His father had simply denied having a son and, because Victor had been so little seen in the company of his father, most people believed him. He had sealed the deal when he passed on the details of Victor’s ‘crime of sodomy’ to the authorities, because surely no father would do that to his son.

I had to agree with that. Surely no father would do that to their son, and so I could understand why Victor referred to his father as simply Otto, and his mother as Catherine. Yet he had cried for them, or perhaps he was finally grieving what had been done to him.

He continued to cry until his sobs turned to hitched whimpers and sighs and the taut muscles of his back and shoulders relaxed into sleep, his damp face still pressed against my chest and his legs tangled around mine, and I held him, not knowing what else I could do. If our roles had been reversed, if it had been me in tears, he would have known exactly what needed to be done, but all I could do in the situation was hold him and hope that when he woke he would have recovered himself.

I craned my neck as I heard Violette walk quietly to the side of the bed, her arms wrapped tightly around her slight frame and her face ashen.

“Jana is asleep,” she whispered. “I am sorry. She received the letter this morning and flew into a panic. Both of her brothers were killed in the uprising, she thought Victor would want to know about his parents. I...”

“You heard?” I asked, my voice gravelly in my ears.

“I did not mean to,” she replied. “But yes.”

The silence stretched out between us as I considered what to say in response but knew that there was no need to point out to a person like Violette that discretion was needed. Her affection for Bauer ran deep and I knew that the details of his past would be safe with her. Not that Victor had been anything other than a victim to the adults who should have cared for and protected him, but people can be - and too often are - cruel to those who are different and there were those who would use Bauer’s past to ruin his present.

After several minutes she leant down and gave my shoulder squeeze before offering a weak smile.

“You have no food,” she told me, “and I have drunk all of your coffee, so I am going out to get you more, and bread that is not riddled with mold, and something to drink because I think we all need it. I will be back soon. Will you be alright?”

I nodded and thanked her and when the door had closed behind her, plunging the room into silence, I shuffled down further in the bed, pulled Bauer as close to me as I was able, and closed my eyes, wishing the world and all its chaos would simply stop.   



	10. Chapter 10

Watching him as he slept, the sweep of his dark lashes against his marble cheekbones, like a classic beauty, filled my heart with such love and sadness that it was like a physical pain. He was my impossible childman, my Bauer, a strange and beautiful creature who had come into this world like a shining light only to be met with hatred, ignorance and cold distain.

I could not fathom how anyone could treat him so and yet, at the same time, I could understand perfectly. Because he was unfathomable, and occasionally infuriating, with intelligence and creativity in such vast quantities that it occasionally overwhelmed even him. And because he was different. And because there was a side of him that was horribly, beautifully vulnerable, a trait that too many people in his young life had been happy to take advantage of.

He let out a short huff through his nose, a smile twitching at his lips before he had even woken, and I brushed his long hair away from his face as his eyes fluttered open like moths wings.

“Rosey,” he said softly as his eyes focused on my face. “My constant Rosey. Why do you look so fearful?”

I shook my head, unsure of how to answer him, and he gave me a sorrowful smile in return, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to my lips that I so wished to deepen, to chase away his fear and insecurity and show him that I loved and adored him.

Such an action was out of the question, however, because we were not alone in our apartment and because, when Bauer woke up enough to detect the delicious aroma of beef and carrot stew, his stomach began to growl violently. He laughed innocently and told his belly to shush and have some patience and was such a mixture of the absurd and the delightful that I was forced to gather him into my arms for a hug so tight that it made him shriek, which startled Violette from the book she had been perusing and Jana from her own slumber.

Victor, having noticed this, climbed out of our blankets and pulled on a woolen jumper, his eyes bright and his lips pursed. Jana saw him and immediately looked down at her hands and I worried that there would be tension between them, but Bauer climbed over the bed to reach her, embraced her, and pulled her back to sit with him among the blankets, talking quietly in their native tongue in a tone that was reassuring and consoling. I felt strangely excluded, watching them, but was reassured that my Bauer was able to comfort his friend and did not hold any ill feelings against her for being the barer of bad news.

I left them to their shared grief and comfort and went to assist Violette, who seemed to have worked wonders in our basic kitchen to create a stew that contained actual beef and edible vegetables. She put down her book and stood beside me as I gazed into the simmering pot and it felt like the most natural thing in the world for me to put my arm around her narrow waist, taking comfort in her presence and offering my thanks for the kindness and love she so often bestowed upon us. She leant into me, returning the affection and I marveled in that moment that I had been blessed with such people in my life as she and Victor.

“Is he alright?” she asked me softly as she stirred the food.

“He will be.”

She nodded solemnly.

“I am glad he has someone who he can love, and who loves him in return. You are a very privileged man, Gui, never forget that.”

Her words were hard, an ominous warning that made me shiver, and I knew that what she said was true, though I did not know what I could say to reassure her.

“He is lucky to have you as well, Violette. We both are.”

She turned toward me at that, a small smirk on her full lips as she looked up, tilting her head slowly to look at me, seeing (as ever) more than was apparent.

“I know,” she told me, “and I shall do what I can but, Gui, please listen. The world is changing. You must take care of one another. There is a storm building across Europe, I can sense it. And if I can feel it, Victor’s senses must be filled with it. Do not let him do anything rash.”

“I promise,” I nodded, aware of my multitude of failings and that I had not always been the best companion to him, but sure in my desire to be with him always and in the knowledge that I was learning to love him and understand him better.

He chose that moment to appear at my side, sweeping Violette into a fierce and enthusiastic embrace that made her laugh more boisterously than I had ever heard from her before. He placed a lingering kiss on her cheek and she returned the affection, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth before leaning back to run her fingers through the tangles of his hair. He rested his hands gently on her hips and smiled at her so lovingly that it made me wonder why I did not feel any jealousy. But I knew my Bauer’s heart, and Violette’s morals, and did not feel threatened by their closeness. They behaved like beloved siblings and I enjoyed the look of bashful delight that came over Victor’s face when they spoke together in private. I could always tell when they were speaking of me because he would bite his lip, his usually brash and confident social persona slipping away to reveal the eternal romantic underneath.

When Jana had dried her eyes and composed herself, and had been coddled and held and smothered in kisses by Victor, who insisted that she required a blanket, fussing about her like a mother hen, we sat down to eat together. Victor and I were not accustomed to dinner guests and so we all sat upon a rug on the floor in parody of a picnic, with bowls of stew and mugs of wine and though we were not a very jolly party it was an enjoyable evening that I have often looked back on with fondness because, as much as I abhor cliches (a topic you have heard me rant on before) it cannot be argued that there is something about good food and good company that makes for pleasant and lasting memories.

After Jana and Violette had finally left us I scooped Bauer up and into my arms and carried him back to our bed, lowering him to the mattress reverently and kissing his forehead, cheeks, nose, chin, ears, neck and throat before beginning to slide my hands up the inside of his jumper and along his warm skin. He gave a shiver at the feel of my palms against his ribs but lifted his arms to allow me to undress him with greater ease, smiling lazily and stretching his slender body like a cat when his naked chest was revealed.

He bit his lip as he gazed at me, being intentionally coy and provocative and I huffed out a breath of laughter as I leant in to kiss him, enjoying the way he reached up to grasp the hair at the nape of my neck, forcing my mouth more firmly against his.

I did not want to push him too far, did not know whether he would want to do anything more than kiss and be close after what he had divulged to me about his other sexual experiences, but Victor seemed to have no such qualms. If anything he was more confident, as though in the telling of those secrets he had gained courage, and the more assertive he became the more I began to wish to be free of my own garments.

He tugged at my hair as he pushed his shoulder against mine and I took the hint and rolled to my side, allowing him to push me on to my back so that he could sit astride my lap and deepen our kisses. Whilst one hand remained firmly tangled in my hair, the other began to deftly remove my clothes, stroking over my skin, his short finger nails grazing enough to make my hips cant upwards, my growing erection pushing against his backside and making me moan.

My pleasure was cut short, however, by my own sudden realisation of what I had done and I began to fear that I had overstepped the boundary between what was acceptable and safe and what was not. Indeed, Bauer was no longer kissing me, simply resting his lips against mine and breathing in short, hard gasps, and so I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him down against me, our chests meeting with enough force to knock the wind from us both. I shifted my legs so that he would not feel the press of my erection against him and ran my hand up and down his spine in as comforting a manner as I could manage, hoping that he would give me some sign that he was sound and well.

“Rosey,” he mumbled against my lips. “I am alright, my love. I am. Except that I can not breathe,” he grinned. “You love me too tightly.”

“Sorry,” I smiled, relaxing my hold and allowing him to raise himself up onto his hands and knees above me, his hair a curtain of dark waves that obscured his eyes from me so that I could not see if what he said was true or simply a falsehood for my benefit.

“I am,” he said in answer to my unspoken concern and I nodded to him, smiling again in response to the grin that was unfurling on his angular face. “And perhaps, one day, we shall do those things, but-”

“They aren’t important,” I said, changing the conclusion for him. “I thought that it was the only way to complete our physical relationship, to be as close to you as it is possible to be, to be within you and part of you, but I was wrong. Because knowing you does not have to mean...”

“Intercourse?”

“Yes. Knowing you is being trusted enough by you to be told your past. Being known by you is...”

“-trusting me enough to make me the keeper of your poetry?”

“Yes,” I said again and he slowly lowered his lips onto mine, kissing me with such intimacy that I saw that the physical oneness I had so desired had been mine all along.

“My Rosey, my Rosey,” Victor mumbled between kisses as he somehow managed to free us both of our trousers and underthings until our skin was bare and pressed warmly together and I could feel the wetness from the tip of his manhood sliding against my thigh.

I grabbed the bottle of oil from its precarious perch atop a stack of books and pulled the cork free as Victor began to suck and nip and my neck, leaving small, blossoming bite marks in his wake. He found my pulse point, lapping and licking at it until I could not tell the beat of my heart from the rhythm of his tongue and realised that we were already as close as it was possible for two people to be. Which particular physical acts we engaged in were irrelevant when we were already so entwined in each others’ being, and realising so was both a moment of epiphany and a relief.

My body arched into his touch and as our chests pressed together once more I felt as if my skin had melded with his. The pleasure I felt that night was so extreme it was on the knife’s edge of pain, delicious and shattering, and not because we did anything different or more, but because of the final stage of spiritual awaking occurring within me. I fancied I could hear and feel Victor inside of me, within my mind and soul, more clearly than ever before, because he was finally open to me, and I to him.

And when I was finally brought to climax, when he finally allowed me to from his position above me, hands holding mine and holding them down, it felt like the sudden relief of a summer storm, the electricity in the air bursting and breaking and bringing forth the rain that had been longed for but never truly expected.  
And when I cried (which I still look back on with a measure of embarrassment all these years later) he did not laugh unkindly but with the most sincere joy and relief.

“I love-” I tried to speak but there was no air in my lungs and Victor impeded me further by pressing his head to my breast bone.

“-I love you also.”

I nodded, bringing my heavy arms up to wrap about his slender form as I tried to form my own sentiments, to no avail.

“I love you also,” I echoed, and he laughed again, deep and affectionate.

“Always-”

“-and forever.”

~

Such extremes were a defining feature of that year. When we stepped out together at artistic events we continued to be praised and were able to push our synchronisation to such a level of perfection that several members of the Surrealist movement asked for permission to study us for wires or radios, certain that we were using trickery, but there was none and we remained a marvel.

I wrote more poems that year than perhaps at any other time, filling boxes with the pages that held my words to Bauer, and another published book of my poems for the wider world (which you have read, I know). Our friend, Yves Tanguy, begged to be allowed to add his illustrations to it and Bauer agreed and the sales of that volume kept us in coffee, wine and bread for most of that year and into the next, though I am still not entirely sure why it was so very popular.

Bauer’s work continued to gain strength, though he refused to go out of his way to promote it, preferring to give other artists the opportunities that I felt he should have kept for himself. When others became suspicious of him he invented detailed and almost believable stories as to why he could not possibly travel to exhibit his work, and most people simply accepted that he was impossibly eccentric and left him to his work - though some were more insistent.

Henri Goetz was one such young artist who Victor chose to help and one who did not accept his fabrications so easily. After Bauer saw his work he announced that it was in and of itself rubbish, but full of potential, pushing Goetz’s face up against one of his canvases and showing him that there was, locked within the paint, something magnificent and sacred if Goetz could only find it. I stood in the corner of the studio watching silently, enjoying the way that Victor moved his hands like a conductor as he described to the younger man what he was capable of and what was lacking in his work, and half expected Goetz to pay my lover an insult in return - as sometimes happened - but he did not.

He was humble in his thanks for the criticism and followed us home instead, begging to learn from Bauer, not even glancing at our clasped hands as we walked the streets to our humble building, and my panic began to rise as he followed us up the stairs and toward our door, but Bauer gave my hand three reassuring squeezes before turning to face his eager new disciple.

“You cannot come in,” he said bluntly. “The room is full of naked young women and they shan’t take kindly to being stared at by a stranger.”

“But,” Goetz blinked at us, his small eyes and soft, homely face showing his bewilderment at such news. “Why is your room full of naked women?”

“Oh,” Bauer said, filling his voice with mock wisdom until I was forced to look away for fear that I would laugh and spoil his show. “They are hard at work, you know, painting the ceiling. And as any right thinking artist knows, one cannot paint a ceiling whilst fully clothed. Just think of the logistical problems that could cause.” He stared at Goetz with no hint of a lie upon his face but the younger man, being of an honest and straight forward disposition, still did not move and Bauer was forced to continue.“I can lend you one or two of those books I mentioned, if that would make you go away. And I shall meet you at your studio on Wednesday if it suits you, but I am going inside now, and you are not.”

I unlocked the door at this cue and slipped inside, knowing which books Victor had referred to and gathering them up quickly before returning to the landing and the still bewildered young artist before us.

“How,” he asked, seeming timid and confused in equal measures. “That is, why are your books still in your room if you are having your ceiling painted?”

“How else would the young women reach so high?” Bauer countered, matching Goetz’s bafflement until I felt I would collapse from my need to laugh. “You cannot climb a ladder naked, Henri, do try to think these things through. Now, here are your books, read them before Wednesday. And there is your exit.”

He span dramatically and I opened the door just wide enough to permit his entry before closing it firmly and locking it in the face of our strange follower, whereupon the laughter was finally allowed to escape my lungs. I hugged my Victor close to me, kissing his hair and face - bringing his hands to my lips so that I could kiss them as well - laughing all the while with sheer delight at his ability to weave such absurd stories that made the world seem more magical than it really was.

And when we returned to see Henri Goetz that Wednesday he had not only read the books leant to him but had a list of questions and a new painting to show Victor as well as a handful of sketches. Within the year Victor had introduced him to the Surrealists and helped to facilitate an exhibit of Goetz’s work in London. He did the same for half a dozen others and asked nothing in return, working simply to fill the world with art and help artists to be the best that they could be.

As that year ended and the next began the streets again grew restless and news was coming from all sides of Fascism’s rise and the looming threat of Germany and Victor’s periods of calm grew shorter. His relationship with several of the Surrealists deteriorated when they refused to take a stance against Fascism or the actions of Mussolini toward his neighbours and during those conversations I could barely keep pace, allowing him to speak for both of us as he gripped my hand firmly and fought to speak rationally when I knew that what he wanted more than anything was to call those weak willed individuals out as the brainless garden snails that they were.

Breton wholeheartedly agreed with him, though he directed his praise to me, and Bauer’s impassioned words affected many of the younger members to take a firm stance against the right wing politics that was dominating so much of Europe by that time.

We were called wise men - learned men - but it was only in April of that year, nineteen thirty-five, that we celebrated Victor’s thirtieth birthday, and I realised that some of the ‘young artists’ that he had helped were the same age, and occasionally older than he. But among our peers he had a charisma that made him seem ageless. He was still considered, in many ways, to be an outsider but he was happy to be so most of the time - known but not famous, acknowledged but not seeking attention - until he accidentally caught the eye of Gala.


	11. Chapter 11

Elena Ivanovna Diakonova. Madame Eluard. Madame Dalí. She was a woman of many names but she was best known, and is still known to this day, as purely Gala, a woman who a wise man would not willingly cross.

Victor had already warned me of Gala and Dalí’s unusual relationship and sexual practices, and Breton had added his own cautionary advice with regard to the sexual power that Gala wielded in our artistic circle, and it was advice that I took very seriously once I had met her.

She was an intelligent and beguiling woman and one who took great delight in the fact that her naked form had been captured so perfectly (and so frequently) in her lover’s art work - that even those of us who had not accepted the invitation to her bed had seen her body bared and willing. She was Dalí’s muse, and there was no argument of his devotion and love for her - he signed her name beside his own on all of his paintings once they were married - but neither did he seem to have qualms about her relationships with other men. Gala was likewise dedicated to Dalí but devotion and monogamy were, for her, two very separate things.

She was revered by many, lusted after by more, hated by some and feared by most but remained, like so many of the figures associated with our movement, an enigmatic figure, courting mystery and intrigue, which only increased her allure.

The most pointed warning against Gala however had not concerned her promiscuity or her passion for being publicly exposed or having an audience whilst in the throws of lovemaking. No, the greatest warning came from Violette and her friends as we shared a bottle of vodka at the small night club, ‘Fleurs’ near their building late one night, and her words troubled me more deeply than any rumours about menage-a-trois possibly could.

~

“She has a child, you know,” Violette told me somberly, holding her shot glass out for Victor to refill.

“By who?” I asked, shocked that neither Victor nor the other women at the table were surprised by the information.

“Eluard,” Jana informed me. “Paul Eluard, the poet. You know him?”

I nodded. I had been aware that Eluard and Gala had been married some years ago, was aware that they were still engaged in an irregular affair even, but had not known about a child.

“A child?”

“Nearly a woman now,” Victor told me, and his eyes grew melancholy and grey as he looked up at me. “She has just turned seventeen, I think. Poor Cecile.”

I was baffled as to how this information was not more widely known but it was explained to me that Gala had barely acknowledged her daughter since the girl was eleven and had been an uncaring mother even before she had abandoned her.

“Cecile lives with her grandmother now,” Violette continued the tale, “but Monsieur Picasso is the one who cares for her the most. He is more her parent than either her mother or father. Gala was never a real mother to her at all. Mothers should not belittle and neglect their children. Cecile deserved better, it would have been an honour to bear such an intelligent, kind daughter.”

The women around the table nodded solemnly and drank their vodka together, as if in salute to the young woman who had been forced to endure such an unfeeling mother, and I watched them and wondered, wishing that I could know more of their stories but too socially feeble to know how to ask. I knew that they managed their affairs carefully, that they lived with the knowledge that a child would be an impossibility within their world and that they would not be able to be the devoted mother they felt a child deserved, but I did not know how it actually made them feel. They were performers, forever smiling and laughing and entertaining, but such a career had but a limited life-span, and one could not dance on stage with a baby on the hip, or in the womb, and they had each made that decision, and I think for some of them it was a hard decision indeed. 

I have never had a desire for children, I have not known many and, whilst I enjoy nurturing the talents of young adults such as yourself, I do not believe I have the patience or skills to deal with children. But I could see in the faces around me that yearning for parenthood and the sad recognition that such yearning would never be fulfilled. Violette, Jana, and the other women lat the table with us, did not envy Gala her many lovers or marriages, or her traveling, celebrity lifestyle and fine clothes. It was the fact that she had mistreated her child which made them disdainful of her, the gift she had been given and failed to recognise which ignited their ire. And if Cecile Eluard was not well known I suspect it was because there were people in her life who took pains to keep her safe and separated from her parents’ reputations.

Their protective instincts were just as strong with Bauer as with Cecile and when she had thrown back her shot of vodka Violette leaned over to kiss Victor on the cheek, an action which I echoed on his other side, and his laugh, half way between a giggle and a cackle, soon had us all smiling once more and swapping news and gossip on lighter subjects. But that insight into Gala’s character stayed with me, for hers were the actions of woman who I came feel was inherently selfish, and ruthless when it came to obtaining her own ends.

~

I had been on the receiving end of Gala’s attentions several times since joining the Surrealists but she had never seemed to be trying in earnest with me, only flirting because that was her way and, to my knowledge, she had never taken any personal interest in Bauer at all. We were not important enough perhaps for her to bother with when there were men like Dalí and Ernst and Breton to play with, and we considered it a blessing. Until, one month after Victor’s thirtieth birthday, when Gala’s eye turned in our direction.

She was a singularly handsome woman, slender and well proportioned, dressed that night in a tailored, cream dress, and she possessed an innate understanding of how to use her body to get what she wanted. And, as she crossed the crowded room toward Bauer and I at the opening of Dalí’s latest exhibition, it seemed that she was putting all of that knowledge to use, walking like a panther stalking its prey, her eyes focused on Victor.

“Here,” she said smoothly, handing Victor one of the two glasses of red wine she had been holding, taking a sip from the other with a hungry look in her eyes.

He took it silently but didn’t drink, instead looking pointedly in my direction, and I knew he was on the verge of asking why Gala would get a drink for him and not for me. I gave his hand a gentle squeeze - no. - but Gala’s sharp gaze seemed to immediately shoot in that direction and her lips, coloured in a hue a few shades darker than blood red, curled in a smile that made my skin crawl.

“How very remiss of me,” she said, drinking her wine in a single swallow and thrusting the glass at a passing waiter before turning her focus back to Victor. “To have brought a drink for you and not for your... companion. But there is no need to fear, I am sure. He is a grown man. He can fetch his own wine, and I shall look after you while he is gone.”

And suddenly her two hands were upon our clasped ones, sliding between them like eels until she had Victor’s hand clutched firmly in one of hers and mine held limply in the other (which she very quickly dropped), her smile never wavering as she forced her way between us, pressing her breasts against Victor’s side as she did so. The look he gave her was bemused but she simply continued to smile, glancing over her shoulder at me with an eyebrow raised in dismissal.

I had no clue about how I should respond to such behaviour but Victor rolled his eyes and nodded and so I left, against my better judgement, to find myself a drink as behind me Bauer took a sip of his own and noted that the taste was unlike any red wine he had previously encountered.

 

“Has it spoiled somehow?” he asked, staring down his nose at the dark red wine, and my chest tightened as I heard Gala laugh, assuring him that it was simply a spiced wine and he would like it better it drank more of it.

Finding a drink for myself proved to be a harder task than it aught to have been. I could not seem to find a waiter anywhere in the gallery and, as I made my way to the bar, I was waylaid twice by bare acquaintances who wanted to know my opinion on Italy’s recent invasion of Abyssinia. I gave them Bauer’s opinion, that we needed, as a people, to oppose Italy’s violent foreign policy and support the Italian Resistance Movement both in Abyssinia and back in Italy rather than falling for the pro-Mussolini propaganda that praised his achievements and empire building - but excused myself abruptly on both occasions, my anxiety making me blunt and uncommunicative as it so often does.

What I saw of Bauer did nothing to relieve my mild panic. My first glance back showed him scowling down into his half-drunk glass of wine as Gala batted her lashes at him, standing far too close for my comfort. The next time I caught sight of him, his glass was empty and Gala had somehow attracted the notice of a waiter who was supplying them each with another drink. Victor’s face was guarded and Gala was pressed close to him, whispering words into his ear that I was desperate to hear.

When I had finally secured my own beverage, my jaw clenched tight and my body beginning to sweat as my nerves multiplied, I turned to find my way back to my Victor only to feel my heart jump suddenly into my mouth when he was not where I had left him. My eyes swept the room frantically, my attempt to appear nonchalant failing when I could not immediately see him. I pushed through the crowd to where we had been standing and finally caught sight of him, sitting in a dimly lit alcove, with Gala in his lap.

Her hands were running over his chest and shoulders, her smile predatory, but my concern was not that Victor had any intention of being intimate with her, but that he was being taken advantage of. He seemed pale, his eyes heavy lidded, and on the table in front of him stood two empty wine glasses. He had consumed three drinks earlier in the evening but another two should not have caused him to become so pliable, or so ill looking, and my mind immediately began to race with possibilities, the first being that he was unwell and needed to be taken home at once.

But as I approached, moving around behind them so that I could come closer without notice, I was finally able to hear the poison that Gala was pouring into my beloved’s ear.

“It is a fine act, to be sure, Bauer. The men are fooled because they are fools and they see what they wish to see, but women... well, we notice what you would prefer us not to see. And what I see, quite plainly, is how desperately you are in love with Gui Rosey. Whether he requites you in the manner you would wish, that I have not yet uncovered - though I shall - but your attachment to him is rather obvious, and it will get you into trouble. I am right, aren’t I, Bauer?”

She held his chin between her fingers and gazed into his eyes, glassy and unfocused as they were, and my heart stopped as he murmured that he felt nothing but the purest platonic love for me.

“He is my brother,” he slurred. “My spiritual brother... I feel unwell.”

“Come, come now, Bauer. You are barely a man but surely you can hold your drink better than this. And do not look at me like I am your enemy. I have come to offer you my protection,” Gala purred, moving her hips so that her backside pressed against Bauer’s crotch. “All too soon your secret shall be discovered, you know that as well as I do. Already they talk about you, and soon they shall turn their gossip to Rosey as well, even if the man has had more women in his bed than I have had men. You know what you should do.”

“Do I?” Bauer asked, his voice high and weak, a child suddenly out of his depth, and unable, in such a state, to hide behind his usual bluster.

“Of course you do,” Gala told him and as I stepped closer I saw her hips shift once more, her hand slipping downwards, sliding between his legs to rub the seam of his trousers hopefully. “My bed is free tonight. Join me in it and your safety shall be assured. I shall make it known that you are a lover of women and not perverse in the slightest. It has been too long since I took a virgin, Bauer, and I know you are one. Come to my room.”

“No,” Bauer mumbled but his answer was cut short and he pursed his lips into a thin line, his eyes closing tight like a man holding desperately to a life line as Gala squeezed his genitals before continuing her rubbing, more firmly than before.

I stood incensed but unsure how to intervene without causing Gala to suspect us all the more but when Victor let out a faint whimper - one of discomfort rather than pleasure - my feet took the final few steps forward on their own.

“Victor?” I asked, my voice hard enough to make Gala jump and Bauer’s eyes snap open in alarm.

“Rosey,” he gasped, and I could see the fear in his flushed cheeks and wide, pale eyes. “Rosey, I-”

“-look very unwell. We should retire. I fear you have fallen victim to a Summer cold.”

“Yes,” he whispered but his attempt to stand was thwarted by Gala who refused to move from his lap and who overpowered him, weak and addled as he was.

“But, Gui!” Gala gushed, patting the sofa beside her for me to join them. “Victor and I were just getting to know one another. You would not pull him away from the party so early, would you? People will talk.”

“I believe he told you no,” I replied, unable to muster any emotion beyond distain for her. “He does not want your bed or anyone else’s bed but his own. We are leaving.”

Gala stood, unfurling provocatively and standing before me, too close for me to be comfortable, and forcing me to acknowledge the plump, pertness of her bosom when I looked down at her.

“Is he your pet, that you order him so?” she asked, her voice teasing while her eyes held a challenge. “I only wanted to help, you know. People whisper about him. Breton will have him ousted if he learns of his perversion. You would not want to become embroiled in such a scandal as well, would you? Be accused of offering your arse to men as he so obviously does? Or does he just offer his arse to you? Is that what this whole living art piece is about?”

I stared at her, stunned into silence and desperately trying to think of what I could say to her that would allay her suspicion without seeming homophobic myself (for I had no desire to hide my relationship under a pretense of hatred and bigotry), but without Victor’s hand in mine I could think of nothing at all and she leered at me as she leaned back to stroke Bauer’s hair as if he were indeed some house trained animal.

“Of course,” Gala continued in what I imagine was her most seductive voice, “you could always join us, Rosey. This little ganymede might come more willingly if you were there to sweeten the deal.”

She was so sure of herself in that moment, and so intent on winning her prize, that she could not even imagine that I would turn her down. Her look of utter surprise then, when I poured my glass of wine down her front, and then dropped the glass, letting it shatter on the floor, was both profound and memorable. And if the sound of a shattering glass was not enough to draw the attention of the entire party, her indignant shriek certainly was.

The cardinal stain of the wine spread quickly through the cream fabric of her dress, like blood seeping from her bosom to her groin and I could not help but delight at how grandly poetic it was. Until she slapped me and I recalled that I was being watched by over one hundred people, all of whom would be drawing their own conclusions about our actions - and I had not even the vaguest clue as to what I should do next.

Bauer stood just as Dalí pushed through the crowd to stand before me and for a moment the notion that we could come to blows passed through my mind. But then Dalí began to laugh and to clap, applauding us loudly and gesturing lovingly to his wife as if she should be congratulated.

“Wonderful,” he exclaimed as our audience began to applaud as well. “Perfect! And now you, my most adored Gala, have been formed into living art just like our friends Rosey and Bauer. And so symbolic,” he chuckled, and Gala gave a tight smile in return. “Did you attempt to get between them, my dear? You should know better than to get between two brothers. Soul mates, whatever their form, should not be trifled with. But come, you must walk the room with me now, that all our guests may enjoy your improved apparel.”

He bowed first to Bauer and then to myself, his moustache twitching in his amusement, before taking Gala’s arm and leading her back into the crowd, many of whom were perplexed, but trying to appear knowledgable, as Gala was paraded through the gallery in her ruined dress.

When they appeared to have forgotten me I stepped quickly to Victor’s side and took his arm.

“Are you alright?” I whispered to him desperately, panicking when he did not immediately reassure me. “Victor? My Bauer? Are you very unwell?”

His body, seeming so slight in his light summer suit, swayed alarmingly, and I put my arm around his waist as I led him to the exit, keeping my eyes lowered to avoid unwanted questions or contact.

When we reached the street he gave up the pretense that he was only a little worse for wear and very nearly collapsed against me, his body slumped and his chest shuddering as he tried to breathe.

“I think,” he whispered raggedly, “that there was something in my wine... other than wine.”

I shall not repeat in writing the words I spoke when I heard that. Suffice to say that my language was coarse enough to bruise the air around us and cause passers by to look up at me and scowl, not that I cared for their sensibilities. Not when Victor had been mistreated, by a woman I had been warned against, whilst under my watch.

I felt an utter failure and, after we had stopped on our journey home three times for Bauer to vomit into the gutter, I scooped him into my arms and carried him the rest of the way. He protested, which I took as a positive sign that his mind was still clear enough to be alarmed at being carried like a bride through the streets, but I did not stop, and by the time we approached our building his head was lolling against my shoulder and he was as good as sleeping.

He woke several more times through the night in order to empty his stomach and I did not sleep at all. By morning he was mostly recovered, if rather raw throated and hung over, but we were both deeply shaken by the incident. It was as I poured him a glass of water and a mug of strong coffee for myself that I made the decision that a change of scenery was in order, if just for a short time. It was Summer, and Bauer had never been to the coast, so that is where we went.

I must pause though, before I relate that chapter of our lives, because the light is fading and my eyes are no longer as keen as I would like to believe. I shall leave these pages here for you, to read on the condition that you yourself have not been idle today. And tomorrow perhaps I shall tell you a little of the months we spent by the sea near Nice, because it was not all scandal and danger, you know. Sometimes we simply read books or took walks or ate dinner together quietly at home. Sometimes he went to great lengths to infuriate me and sometimes I infuriated him by being oblivious to world events that he considered the height of importance. Some days he sat at my feet with a pair of scissors in hand and a determined expression on his face and insisted on trimming my toe nails. Other days he allowed me to brush his hair.

But I must stop here for the night, or I never shall. This process has once again left me melancholy and strangely empty, despite the joy of my remembrances. The ghosts fill my mind and insist they will not budge, but they must lay quiet a while, for I am an old man and in need of my bed.

And so, until tomorrow.

 


	12. Chapter 12

My dear -----,

You must forgive the reticence with which I return to this tale. I know you wish to read our story in full but I have found it hard to put pen to paper today. I dreamed last night. Of days spent by the water, of laughter, of love and light. Carefree days in which we made believe that the shadow hanging over the world was not there at all. But the dream ended with darkness, and with regret, as every dream does, and then I opened my eyes and looked out of my window this morning and realised that from our reclusive, little mountain top, I can see all the way to Milan. And I am ashamed to say that it made me weep.

You must forgive my weakness, for I am an old man now, and self-control slips further from me every day, determined to leave me a dribbling idiot who cries at landscapes and forgets what he ate for breakfast. Yet I can remember those years with him in such clarity that at times I hope I might become lost in them, submerged in my reminiscences until there is no possibility of returning to this grey, modern world - only Bauer, and the golden years we spent together. But I am not so lucky.

I left you last on the night in which Gala, wife of Dalí, attempted to seduce my Victor into her bed by any means necessary. She was unsuccessful of course, but her perception of our relationship and brazen attempt at blackmail left us both shaken, Bauer quite literally.

The morning after that horrid night, just as I had determined in my mind that a holiday was needed, Victor woke with a pained groan, retching drily into the pail I had left by the bed for him and sobbing at the pain of his raw and burned throat. The room stank of his vomit, which was almost enough to raise my own gorge, and so I opened the windows, handed Victor his glass of water and a mug of coffee and took the pail away to the bathroom at the end of the hall, trying not to breathe in the pungent odor.

I was not successful in my attempts to keep my nostrils shut whilst my hands were both occupied, surprisingly, but when I accidentally breathed in my senses were overwhelmed by the smell of bitter aniseed and something like rotten herbs and I realised, with a fresh wave of anger, that absinthe may well have been added to Victor’s wine that night.

I clenched my teeth against my rage, and the smell, and debated whether it was right to share my suspicions with Victor as soon as I returned or whether it was best to let him fully recover first. I knew I would have to tell him, to do otherwise somehow felt dishonest, as if I too were being underhanded toward him, but I also knew that he would be fragile and full of self-loathing for at least the first half of the day and that bringing up what Gala had given him would only exacerbate his dark mood.

I still had not made up my mind when I returned but found that I did not need to, for Bauer was sitting up in bed waiting for me, his face grim and his hands so tight around his coffee mug that his knuckles were white.

“It seems I ingested absinthe last night,” he told me in a soft, cracked voice and I nodded as I came to sit on the bed, watching his face carefully.

“That was my thought as well,” I agreed.

“It was not so surprising a choice, I suppose,” he continued, though he was forced to stop and clear his throat regularly. “A great many people consider it to be an aphrodisiac and certainly it lowers inhibitions, but...” he pursed his lips and blinked up at the ceiling as his eyes became watery and his cheeks flushed. “My body does not cope well with absinthe. We drank it in surprising quantities at university and-”

His breath hitched and I leaned forward carefully to wrap my arms around him, trying not to knock the mug from his hands but desperate all the same to show him that I understood what he was trying to tell me. He pressed his forehead into the crook of my neck and I could hear his failed attempts to control his breathing before he gave in to the urge to cry.

“You idiot, Bauer,” he berated himself but I disagreed.

“No,” I told him, taking the coffee from his hands and placing it beside the bed so that I could hug him to me more tightly. “No, you are not an idiot. She put that filth - that illegal filth - into your wine. She planned it. We knew she was callous but it is not your fault - or mine - that we did not not know just what she is capable of. I am guilt ridden, my Victor, that this happened, but we were not the ones responsible.”

Victor wrapped his arms about my waist and held me with such desperation that his fingers began to bruise my skin through my shirt but I made no attempt to escape his embrace. The incident had frightened us both but for him it had triggered old memories as well and I knew that what he needed more than anything else was physical comfort and reassurance, and so that is what I gave.

We lay down together in the bed and, as I pulled him into my arms, his back to my chest, I realised how terribly tired I was. I had not slept that night, merely dozing once or twice between holding Bauer and stroking his shoulders and neck as his body purged itself of the alcohol it had unwittingly consumed, and suddenly my body refused to remain conscious.

I pressed comforting, gentle kisses along the curve of Bauer’s shoulder as I mumbled to him that he was safe, that he was loved, that I was there with him, and that I would never leave his side again, even to get a drink or piss, if he so desired it. He laughed at that, a surprised exhalation and silent shaking of his shoulders that reassured me that no matter what happened to him, his humour would still remain.

As we both began to drift into the arms of sleep I told him of my idea to take him away to the seaside and heard him take in a sharp breath at the thought. He clasped my hands in his and lifted them to his lips to kiss my fingers and I soon felt the hot warmth of tears against my hands as well. I rocked him to sleep with stories of the coast and the smell of the sea and the delicious food we would eat when we arrived, and soon we both slept, finally able to relax with a new plan unfurling in our minds.

~

It took longer than I would have liked for me to organise our furlough to the south and over the month that followed I watched as Bauer became more guarded in public, more skittish and reticent, and more likely to snap at those who disagreed with him. He barely left the apartment on his own and if he had an engagement with his friends at a theatre or cafe I walked him to his destination and was there to meet him again at the appointed time.

We avoided Dalí - and Gala, obviously - and Breton took this as a sign that we agreed with his desire to have Dalí expelled from the Surrealists for his populist and money-making ways. It was an opinion which neither Bauer or I ever refuted, though we bore the man himself no true ill will, we simply did not want to be forced into company with his wife every time the Surrealists met, a desire which kept us away from many gatherings which I think only added to Victor’s erratic moods.

Twice he and I argued to the point that he made a move to leave the apartment, and if it had not been the middle of the night on both occasions I would have welcomed his desire to get out on his own for a short while, but both times he balked when it came to actually stepping through the door, and seeing fear in those intelligent and fierce eyes was painful in the extreme.

So many times in the course of our relationship I had promised to watch over him and keep him safe but I seemed to fail at every turn and even began to despair of finding somewhere for our holiday, until some unexpected fortune fell into our laps.

Henri Goetz had rented a house in the city of Nice with the intention of spending the summer and autumn by the sea but had been extended the unexpected honour of an extension of his exhibition, first in London and then to Amsterdam and Berlin, and would therefore be traveling for the next several months. The house was a small one, and on the outskirts of the city (in Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat to be exact), though as close to the coast as it was possible to be, and the day that Goetz arrived unexpectedly on our doorstep requesting that we make use of his holiday in his stead was a surprising one indeed.

It was so unexpected that I, in my shock, invited the young man in, even though visitors were rarely granted entrance to our home, and did not realise what I had done until I heard Victor let out a rather comical squeak before running to put on some clothes and cursing me under his breath, but Goetz did not seem perturbed.

He was far too interested in the room itself to notice its inhabitants and turned in a slow circle with his mouth hanging slack like a child in a sweets shop, marveling at the walls of books, stacks of canvases and sketches and boxes and piles of drafted poems and essays, and when he turned back to face me I could see that he felt he had been granted a great privilege.

“It is a paradise,” he said in quiet awe.

Bauer emerged in a kaftan, obviously the first item he had grabbed in his haste, and gave me a warning look, though I could not help smiling. The flowing robe had been a gift from some of his chorus girl friends, something exotic for him to wear about his rooms, and it was a stunning mix of peacock blues and sea greens that enhanced the colour of his eyes and made him seem more like the strange, heavens child that he was, neither male or female and yet both at once. He wrapped his arms around his waist defensively, obviously aware that it was not the wisest garment to don but knowing too that he was unable to change it now. But Goetz did not react negatively to such an outlandish item.

In fact, Goetz was probably one of the few surrealist artist who could be counted upon to not even blink at anything Victor did. He had decided, at our first meeting, that Victor and I were strange, that we often told him things that were untrue and that we did so for our own reasons, but that ultimately nothing we did was malicious or at his expense. He was a straight forward man, and a gifted artist, and I rather liked him, after a fashion. And he never forgot to be grateful for the introductions Bauer had made on his behalf.

When he noticed Bauer standing in the doorway to the bedroom his eyes widened further and we both tensed. Not only was Victor in a state of undress (the kaftan slipping from his shoulder and doing nothing to hide the fact that he was naked beneath) but Goetz could clearly see that our home contained only one bed, and that it’s sheets were rumpled in a most intimate way. Instead his reaction was classically Goetz, which we should have anticipated.

“What beautiful colours,” he said, gazing at the fabric. “You look like one of your own paintings.”

And that was that. When it came to the details of the holiday he did inform us that the house had only one bedroom but assured us that how many beds a place had, or how that bed might be shared and by whom was surely a private matter and not something he would ever gossip about.

The relief must have been evident on our faces because he went on to promise us that he would never reveal what we ourselves had not made public and, do you know, he has held to that.

I read his biography not long ago and he did mention Bauer, and the influence he had on the development of Goetz’s work and style but only said that he was eccentric and mysterious and a tremendous liar. He did note that the lies and inconsistencies in Bauer’s private life held him back in his art which, I admit, I may have taken as a personal slight at the time of reading, but he never told our secrets, and for that I am grateful.

I am also eternally in his debt for the months of joy and freedom we spent on the south coast thanks to his generosity. We took very little with us - art supplies and paper in one case, a few pairs of trousers and shirts in the other - locked our door and gave the key to Violette for safe keeping, and set off on an adventure like two men of action rather than the lost boys we actually were.

I could write a thousand pages to you of what we did that summer, of all that I saw, both in Nice and of Victor. The journey south on the train made him nervous which in turn made him excessively talkative and I was thankful that it was an overnight journey so that we could at least sleep through several of the hours but I still had to use persuasion to convince him to lie down on his narrow bunk, and his nervous giggling at the thought of being caught en flagrante on a moving train did nothing to calm his nerves.

We were a rather disheveled duo when we alighted at Nice the next morning and it was an additional tram journey to our final destination but we made it there eventually, obtained our key from the owner of the cafe on the corner, and entered our holiday residence with great relief.

It was no more than a cottage but everything we needed it to be. The garden was overgrown but covered in late blooming flowers and the bougainvillea that covered the walls and framed every window had us both caught up in nostalgia and romantic sentiment from the moment we arrived.

Victor insisted that making love in every room of the house was entirely necessary and I, ever the fool, went along with him, and we barely left the house for those first three days, save to source food and discover the outhouse at the end of the garden. We were both deliriously happy and when we began to walk around our suburb we found the people friendly and relaxed. They had not fallen victim to the new world’s opinion of affection and we were not the only two men holding hands in friendship, which delighted Bauer no end.

When he saw the beach for the first time, walking down to the end of the street to where the cobble stones gave way to grass and pebbles and then the wide expanse of golden sand and pale blue sea, his eyes widened to the point that they began to water and reflected the colour of the water so perfectly that I wished I had been a painter in order to capture their beauty. He grinned at me, the sort of smile that heralded mischief, and before I could ask him his intentions he was tugging at his shoes and socks, hopping about on the grass in his haste to reach the sand and touch it with his bare toes.

We both ended up rolling our trousers above our knees in order to wade in the crystalline water but as neither of us knew how to swim we did not venture any further in and Victor was satisfied with wetting his legs and nothing else, walking about and looking at his feet and remarking at the effects of the water and sunlight, at the pleasant coolness of it, and the delicious texture of both the wet and dry sand.

He was not so pleased at the prospect of donning his socks or shoes to walk home in when it was time to leave and so walked back up through the streets in his bare feet, swinging his shoes merrily and grinning all the while, his mind afire with the colours and new experiences of the day. When we lay in bed that evening he remarked that our kisses tasted of the sea, and how seemingly magical it was that the scent and essence of the ocean had managed to permeate our very beings in only one afternoon. When I pointed out that the sand had also managed to permeate our bed clothes he admitted that he was actually enjoying the feel of it - the scratch and grit against his skin - and I called him a madman, a sentiment he agreed with soundly, though he eventually allowed me to shake out the sheets before we retired, to avoid being woken by any unfortunate chaffing.

The next morning Victor rose early and had gathered his small box of water colours, some pencils, and a sketch book before I had even pulled myself from the bed. We ate a light breakfast at the cafe at the end of the street, which very quickly became our regular haunt, and then set off once again for the beach.

Somehow, within that first week, my Bauer managed to produce enough paintings of the cove of Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat that he ran out of paper, but this was a problem easily remedied because his work quickly gained admirers as well. He sold his paintings for whatever loose change the passers by had with them - if they liked the piece it was theirs, regardless of how much or little they had to offer - and somehow it allowed us to purchase more paper and what other supplies he needed, including a large sun hat when I realised how quickly the sun was affecting his pale skin that first day of painting.

We had brought our meagre savings with us on the journey and there was enough for our basic needs but it was Victor’s beach-side art that allowed us to live and eat for most of our time there. Word about the artist who sold his work for a meal or a bottle of wine soon spread and before long we were receiving daily visitors from the most affluent suburbs of central Nice, keen to purchase a water colour by an artist they had never heard of but whose accent and appearance were eccentric enough to make for a good story.

And Victor’s appearance was certainly something to behold. He took to wearing his kaftan, or a large flowing shirt, with his oldest, paint-speckled trousers, and often left his hair to hang loose under his wide-brimmed hat rather than in its usual oiled tail. His hair, as always, framed his face perfectly, curling gently around his prominent cheek bones and pointed chin and adding to his beauty, which in turn added to the money he made from those who saw him at work.

We chatted as he worked, of everything and nothing, as lovers do, and I wrote as well, which he often had me read out to him, an experience that was embarrassing but also rewarding, for his smiles when I read to him shone brighter than the sunlight on the still waters and filled my heart to overflowing with affection. We still found ourselves finishing one another’s sentences and thoughts - it was a habit ingrained in us by then - but it was not irksome and several of the local children took delight in hearing us speak so seamlessly as one, which gave us more pride than we had felt at any artist or man of intellect previously impressed by our talent.

Once again I was waking each morning with a smile upon my lips, often to the vision of an already awake and eager Bauer, and at the end of only three months I had nearly one hundred poems and made the decision to publish them for the man I loved. I tracked down a local printing press and offered them all profit from any copies sold if they would but print a small booklet of my poems, and miraculously, they agreed. I published them under the initials G. R. rather than my full name, though I did give them our forwarding address, and a few weeks later the small volume arrived, bound in blue cardboard with cheap glue, but with my words to Bauer within, a single volume as a token of my love.

We had been together for four years by that point and decided to spend more money than we usually would on a dinner at one of the local restaurants. At the time it had seemed simple enough but on that day I suddenly felt that celebrating an anniversary of this kind was far more significant than I had first imagined. I wondered whether I should give the book to him before we left for the restaurant, or during the meal, or when we arrived home afterwards. I worried over whether giving a gift was appropriate or whether it would make me seem foolish. I began to panic that I was over-thinking the entire activity and that Bauer had not even remembered that it was indeed the anniversary of our meeting.

This panic increased when I walked in to our cottage, hiding my book clumsily behind me, and saw Bauer in the corner painting, naked from the waist up and with gouache paint smeared on his arms, chest and cheek. He had surely forgotten our dinner reservation, I decided, and felt my heart plummet when he did not even look up as I trod on the creaking floorboard by the door.

I took the book of poetry to the bedroom but did not know where to hide it, to hide my shame. I knew that Victor loved me, he told me daily and showed his affection readily when it was safe to do so but my self-doubt still declared that I must have misjudged something about our relationship and that our anniversary (which we had never celebrated before) was not a matter of importance.

I sat so long on the bed, staring at the blue cover and it’s black printed title “... With Love” that I did not notice the light beginning to fade or hear the sound of Victor beginning to move about, cleaning his brushes and packing away his paints. When he opened the bedroom door I jumped violently in surprise, which made Victor jump in return, and I thrust the book under my pillow, turning guiltily away to try and explain that we did not need to go out after all, unless he wanted to.

But my words died upon my tongue at the sight of him, bare chested and paint smeared, looking at me with concern.

“Are you alright, Rosey?” he asked, stepping forward to place a hand to my forehead as though a fever would explain my strange behaviour. “Have you forgotten our dinner plans for tonight?”

“No,” I replied, possibly too forcefully, for he startled, blinking at me in surprise and bringing a small smile to my lips. “I thought perhaps you had forgotten. But I did not wish to disturb you.”

“Oh, my Rosey,” he whispered to me affectionately, dipping his head to lay a kiss on the tip of my nose. “How could I forget? Never in my life have I spent such a span of years with one I love so well. It is an anniversary worth celebrating. I simply had to... finish something first.”

I parted my legs so that he could stand between them, pulling him into my arms and resting my face against his chest as he cradled my head and stroked my hair lovingly, the pressure of his delicate fingers against my scalp sending a thrill down my spine and straight to my groin. I could feel an identical stirring in him as the fabric of his trousers began to press against my stomach with his increased arousal.

I nuzzled my way lower, pulling at the fastening of his pants as he began to twitch and pant in my arms.

“Rosey,” he gasped in a voice that has been seared into my mind, full of need and desire and joy. “We do not have much time, Rosey. We are due at the restaurant soon and I am not dressed.”

“There is time for this,” I told him, freeing his erection from its confines and taking it into my mouth as Bauer moaned loudly and bucked forward.

His fingers tightened in my hair in a manner that I never tired of as I worked his arousal, sucking harshly whilst my hands squeezed his backside just hard enough to shock, not giving him a chance to pace his need or slow the spiraling desire within him. He moaned my name again and again, breathless and desperate as the heat of his member slid between my lips and against my tongue with ever increasing speed, increasing my own need even as I focused on his. He climaxed quickly, pulling at my hair and gasping as his body shook ferociously and I swallowed around him.

I did not release him until I felt the waves of pleasure recede and he gasped once more when I let his spent member slip from my lips, and let out a ragged laugh at the intensity of his own orgasm. He tried to lower himself to his knees before me but I pulled him upwards into my lap to kiss him chastely before locking my eyes with his.

“Later,” I promised him. “For now you must wash yourself quickly and dress or we shall miss our dinner entirely.”


	13. Chapter 13

“A giraffe? You think that the head waiter looks like a giraffe?”

Victor, seated across from me at the table, giggled so uncontrollably that I worried that soon his soup would come spurting from his nose as he tried in vain to hide his laughter and maintain the appearance of ordinary dinner conversation. I was barely more composed than he and struggled to keep my own laughter quiet so as not to cause a disturbance, but seeing the light and magic in Bauer’s eyes made me want to yell to the moon that I was in love and happy and the luckiest man in the world. Instead I finished my soup and watched as Bauer looked about the room at the various customers and staff, imagining what animals they might be.

I do not know why that particular question is one I remember, except that Victor’s explanation - that the man was tall with an uneven tan - made perfect sense to me at the time. It was our game that night, to point out various people, say what animal we thought they would be in another life, and attempt to make each other laugh. It was a game born of necessity really, due to my inability to think of a single interesting word to say when sat at a dining table, but Victor turned my awkwardness into something marvelous until I almost forgot to be afraid.

We had walked hand in hand to the restaurant that evening as the sun set over the distant horizon and Bauer had made us stop several times to take in the twilight colours, which meant that we were quite late to dinner, but relieved to find our table still available. I had chosen that particular restaurant after learning that it boasted some of the finest crab dishes in the district and I knew that, since coming to the coast, Victor had discovered a fondness for crab meat, seizing any opportunity to taste it, usually in a soup at our local cafe. I wanted to spoil him in every way that I was able and treating him to his new favourite dish was one way I could make his experience of life better and brighter, so I counted our coins and made arrangements with the chef.

When our empty bowls were taken by the waiter, who may or may not have resembled a giraffe, I began the game again, hoping to keep Victor occupied until his surprise main course arrived.

“And what about her?” I whispered to him. “The old woman in the corner? What animal would she be?”

“Her?” Victor whispered back, leaning forward until our faces were nearly touching over the centre of the table. “A goat,” he said decisively. “Definitely a goat.”

My laughter escaped in the form of a snort which made Bauer begin to chuckle and he bit his lip to hide his amusement.

“Victor,” I whispered. “You cannot just call a woman a goat! Have you no respect for your elders at all?”

“You know I have not,” he said darkly, though still smiling. “Not simply for being my elders in any case. Besides, she has the beard for it, she is most positively a nanny goat. That’s a lovely thing. How dare you insinuate that she is anything but lovely!”

His mocking and dramatized scandal were too much for me and I leaned back in my chair and wrapped my arms around my ribs as I laughed silently, my face becoming unbearably red under the pressure of containing my hysterics. The diners around us glanced in our direction several times, obviously curious as to what was bringing forth such high spirits at our table, and I truly did not wish to disturb their meals or be obnoxious through loud behaviour, but it was a struggle when Victor was so very entertaining.

When our main meal arrived his demeanor changed entirely - from impish grin to open mouthed awe - as he looked at our plates, each with an entire baked crab upon it, seated on a bed of lettuce. When his eyes eventually rose from his plate to my face I felt I might actually burst, exploding into a multitude of iridescent bubbles, or some other impossible nonsense, for I felt that my body were not a large enough, or suitable vessel for how I felt toward him and how pleased I was that he was impressed and delighted by his meal.

“My Rosey,” he said with soft amazement. “They are magnificent. They... they are surely us!” and here the grin began to creep back onto his lips. “If ever there were two creatures who so clearly resembled the ridiculous human beings that we are, it is these two!”

“We are crabs now?” I asked, smiling so wide that my jaw was beginning to ache.

“Obviously,” he replied to me before frowning dramatically. “But what a fate we have met, my dear one. How sad. Yet they were together at the end and that was surely a comfort to them. And we shall redeem them,” he told me, lifting his fork like a beacon. “They shall not have died in vain.”

I laughed along with him, and we enjoyed our meal thoroughly, Bauer making the sort of appreciative sounds that no man should be allowed to make in public when his lover is so close and yet unable to do anything to relieve the frustration caused by such noises. But there was a strange sinking deep within my heart as well, for I could not help but sense the foreboding in such a statement. He had declared that the creatures were us, for whimsical reasons no doubt, yet the thought persisted that they had died together, and I realised that I hoped that one day we truly would meet their fate. Not in the near future, I had no desire to die young (and no desire for Victor’s death at all) but I hoped that some day we would be able to pass from this life hand in hand, two peaceful old men who had earned their rest.

It was a disquieting thought to have on such a joyful night and I did my best to put it aside and focus on Victor’s tremendous enjoyment of his dinner. He had not seen a real crab before and made sure that we were both ridiculously careful in dismantling the creatures’ armor, refusing to let me crack the claws even, so that we both had to suck the tender meat from within like simpletons, which embarrassed me more than any of our other behaviour that evening - but he had good cause.

“What type of crabs are these?” he asked me as we neared the end of the meal. “Do they have a name?”

“Of course they have a name,” I chuckled but he simply shrugged his shoulders, unashamed of his ignorance in such matters. “They are spider crabs. Did you enjoy it?”

I knew that he had, but still took pleasure in his contented smile and nod. He leaned back in his chair and sighed, folding his hands over his belly in a satisfied manner and gazing at me so lovingly that it brought a blush to my cheeks.

“Do you think,” he said thoughtfully, “that the restaurant would object to me taking the shells home with me?”

I blinked in surprise and it was my turn to give a shrug, though my curiosity was well and truly piqued.

“I don’t see why not. But what do you intend to do with them?”

“Well,” he smiled. “I cannot just leave them here, not when they were so very much the spirit of you and I. I shall make them into something, have no fear. For now I simply cannot bear the thought of their beautiful skeletons being thrown away.”

I could not argue with that and neither could our waiter, who took the shells to the kitchen and rinsed them, dried them, and brought them out to us in a small box, earning him a dazzling smile from Bauer and as big a tip as we could afford to give.

The walk back to the cottage was slow as the streets were dark and uneven and Bauer was treading with extreme care so as not to fall and destroy his precious cargo, but we made it home eventually and he placed the box reverently onto the table before turning to place a sweet kiss upon my lips. I wanted to continue with our kisses but felt the anxiety return to my chest, tightening around my lungs and constricting my throat as I tried to determine when I should present Victor with the book that was still hidden beneath my pillow, or whether I should give it to him at all.

Looking back I can see how ridiculous such worry was, for Bauer had received so many poems and notes from me, accepting them with love and respect for my work and my feelings, and there was little real difference between giving him my verse on loose paper or bound in a booklet and yet... it felt different. It felt somehow more serious, more of a formal declaration of my intention to dedicate my life to him. And I was horribly afraid.

But Victor, as always, saved me from myself, although on this occasion he lifted me from my fear by drawing my attention to his own apparent worry. He was biting his lip nervously and, having pulled the ribbon from his hair, was fussing with it even though to me it appeared to be sitting faultlessly.

“Are you alright?” I asked him and he looked up into my eyes, his own grey with apprehension, like an overcast sky.

“You will think I am a fool,” he told me simply, and I wrapped my arms about his slender waist, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

“Never.”

“You might,” he argued. “I was not exaggerating when I told you I had never spent so long with a person who I loved and who loved me in return. And I have been so happy here and... I may have made you a present.”

My heart fluttered at hearing this and I pulled him more firmly toward me, overwhelmed at how closely we mirrored one another, not just in movement and mannerism but in thought and deed also.

“I may have made you a gift as well,” I told him and saw the joy swell within him until he smiled up at me with such intense love that I very nearly cried. “It is under my pillow.”

He chuckled wickedly at that and began to tug me toward the bedroom but my eyes strayed to the corner where his latest paintings were hidden under a cloth and he huffed at me, obviously less than keen to hand over his own creation now that the moment had come. He continued to tug me toward the doorway as I attempted to maneuver him in the opposite direction and before long we were tussling and laughing and tripping over one another’s feet in a clumsy slow dance that ended when we collapsed to the floor, our legs tangled so that I could do little else but submit to his tickling and prodding until I was on my back on the threadbare rug with Victor above me, licking his lips as he began to unbutton my waistcoat.

“What about my gift?” I asked him as he started on the buttons of my shirt, running his hands over my skin when he finally had my clothing out of the way, staring at me hungrily.

“This is part of it,” he said seductively. “You would not let me before. Later, you said. Well, it is later now and I am a man of great determination.”

“A crab of great determination, surely,” I told him, squirming under his touch and the pressure of his crotch against mine.

“... Yes,” he said after a moment of serious thought. “A crab of great determination. Walking sideways through the world. I like that very much.”

He dipped down to kiss me, pressing his plump lips firmly against my thin ones and then turning his head so that his stubbled chin scraped against mine, leaving wet kisses along my cheek to my ear. The feel of his teeth grazing my earlobe caused uncontrollable shivers to course through me and he took advantage of my loss of control by forcing the clothing from my shoulders and maneuvering my body until I was suddenly naked beneath him, my shoes thrown across the room and my socks tossed into the air like streamers.

He began at the arch of my foot, kissing and licking his way upwards, swapping from one leg to the other as he sent thrills through my skin, his finger nails, as bitten as always, scratching up the outsides of my shins and thighs, catching on hairs and forcing gasps from my throat as my mind and body attempted to balance the harsh scratching with the delicate movement of his lips.

When he reached the sensitive flesh of my inner thighs he nipped teasingly with his lips and my hips twitched, my hard member bobbing about in a way that I would have found horribly embarrassing if I had not been so aroused. We had shared a bottle of wine over dinner but it was far more than alcohol causing my head to spin and my skin to heat and when he began to lap at my testicles I could not keep my eyes open or my voice quiet and began to moan wantonly as my body twitched and spasmed at his touch. He continued to lick until his tongue pressed against my perineum and I felt my hips lift, urging him on - though I did not even know what it was that I so desperately wanted from him.

His hands slid to my inner thighs, rubbing and gently pinching, and I spread my legs for him instinctively before it hit me that there was something that we could do, that I wanted him to do to me.

“Victor,” I rasped but found that I did not know how to continue the question and that, when his tongue worked its way back up the length of my erection I could not continue.

Instead I spread my legs as wide as they would go and lifted my hips from the floor as he took me into his mouth, and when that did not get the desired result I reached down to stroke his fingers with my own and pushed them downwards. I felt him chuckle around me, a sensation that I never grew accustomed to, no matter how often it seemed to happen (I prefer not to dwell upon the fact that he seemed to find our lovemaking amusing so often) but eventually he trailed his fingers down to my perineum and began to rub firm circles as he continued to suck.

My body felt aflame, the passion building in my belly until I let out a whimper, where upon he removed his mouth, and fingers, and laughed wickedly.

“Hold tight, my Rosey,” he growled. “Are you asking for what I think you are asking, my love?”

I nodded desperately, biting my lip and squeezing my eyes shut tightly, not daring to see his face or what he might think of me. He pressed a quick kiss to my knee before rising and I heard him move quickly to the bedroom, returning a moment later. He knelt over me, leaning in to capture my mouth in a passionate kiss, his teeth pulling at my lip as he rubbed himself against me.

I groaned at the feel of his shirt against my bare skin, wanting to feel his skin against mine, his heat against my heat, but he laughed again and lifted himself from me, settling between my legs and drizzling oil over my aching length and lower, over my testes and further still. His fingers, slick and wet, slid between my buttocks and I felt my heart begin to drum against the cage of my ribs as he rubbed against my anus, coating it in oil until he was able to slide a finger inside of me.

It is a difficult thing to relate - not only because it was so intimate, that is not a great concern anymore - but because I have no way to adequately describe such a sensation, except that it was a feeling of fullness and completion. And it made me sob and buck my hips violently, bunching the rug in my fists, my fingers digging into the wood of the floor.

When he suddenly returned his mouth to my erection my sobs became strangled and I struggled to draw breath. He pushed his finger in as far as it would go and my back arched at the intensity and pleasure that was almost beyond bearable.

“Yes!” I cried. “That... Yes! Yes! Just like... That- that is...”

“Perfect?” he mumbled around my member.

“Yes! Oh god yes!”

He laughed again and that was all it took for me to topple over the edge of pleasure and into ecstasy and, as the waves of my orgasm began to recede, he removed his finger carefully, causing us both to whine at the loss of contact. He was so close to his own climax that all it took was to pull him down on top of me, his erection rubbing against my still spasming anus, and then he was orgasming, his seed hitting my opening and sending a secondary wave of pleasure through my body, extending my own orgasm and leaving me weak, twitching and covered in our combined release.

He continued to laugh, his forehead pressed to my chest and his nose poking against one of my ribs hard enough to make me squirm uncomfortably. But I could not escape from under him and his laughter was as infectious as ever and soon I was laughing like a madman along with him, until my lungs began to ache and I had to move, or else remain on the cold floor until morning.

Victor rolled away and stumbled to his feet, his trousers loose on his hips and his shirt hanging untucked and slipping from his shoulders, his eyes hidden by the dark hair hanging over his face but his smile still blinding. He was radiating nervous energy, bouncing from foot to foot and looking down at me as if he had already received the most amazing gift.

“I am ready to give you your painting now,” he told me excitedly. “But we should wash our hands first. We are rather... sticky, and some of the paint may still be wet.”

He dragged me to my feet, giggling at my protests that I was too old to be taken on cold, uneven floors, and kissing my protests away. But when we had washed each other, and I had pulled on my robe, I could suddenly find no words at all, for he was standing before me with the most glorious work of art held in his hands, a look of nervous hope on his face, still half hidden by his mussed hair.

I stared at the painting, still tacky and damp in places but complete and heart achingly perfect. There were splashes and shapes in half a dozen shades of blue invading layers of bronze and gold under a darkening sky and I fought back tears as I took it in.

“It is beautiful, Victor,” I murmured. “It is our cove.”

He smiled softly before looking down at his work, a blush creeping across his cheeks that only made me love him more.

“It is us,” he said in a voice barely more than a whisper. “Well, it is our cove as well. The sea and the shore, the sun and the moon, earth and sky that seem separate and defined but are really so closely entwined and part of one another...” His voice trailed away pensively. “But you may tell people that it is our cove. The cove.”

I stepped toward him and took his chin between my finger and thumb, lifting his face so that he could look into my eyes and I into his.

“It is you and I,” I agreed, letting my lips press gently against his. “Oh, how I love you.”

“And I you,” he replied sweetly, before he nipped my bottom lip with his teeth. “Now where is my present?”

I chuckled as I lifted the painting delicately and carried it to our bedroom, placing it on the chest of drawers where I would be able to see it when I woke. Victor bounced merrily to our bed and fell among the tangle of blankets, pulling his shirt over his head and grinning at me cheekily as I turned to face him, fighting down the anxiety that simply would not leave me be.

I pulled the book of poetry out from under my pillow and handed it to him hurriedly, thrusting it into his waiting hands and sitting on the opposite edge to the bed, staring at the wall and hoping that he would not choose that moment to begin giggling again. Instead there was silence, followed by a small sob and I turned back quickly and saw him sitting in the centre of the bed, his lip wobbling and a tear rolling slowly over his pale cheekbone. The book was open to the first page, the dedication, and it took me a moment to recall what I had written.

“... with love... for my Bauer. Always.”

His face became pained and he held the book to his chest for a long moment before crawling across the mattress to kiss me desperately, forcing me down on to the bed and using his lips, tongue, teeth and hands to ignite my desire once again, each caress a thank you and an answer to my love.

And when I awoke the next morning Victor was sitting on the floor, naked save for the impish grin on his face, transforming the crab shells from our anniversary dinner into telephones. They did not work of course, for he used old pieces of metal that he had found in the cottage’s wild garden, made to appear real through the skill of his painting, but he insisted that they were our private phones, with crab shell ringers and claw handsets, and recited one of my poems into his to demonstrate their value.

It was the most ridiculous concept I had ever encountered and so I picked up my own spider crab telephone and told him that I loved him, and nearly died in the sunlight of his smile.

~

“... with love... for my Bauer. Always.”

I meant those words, simple as they were, and I mean them still, but poetry, as much as it may reflect reality, is not a true reflection of how the world works. You must remember that as a writer, that no matter what we put into words, our actions are what matter, they are what we shall live and die by.

Nice was a magical place for the two of us - our escape, our poetry in an apathetic world - but all too soon the weather turned - summer was over and winter was drawing in. We packed our cases once again, bid farewell to the friends we had made, and to the small cottage with the overgrown garden, and returned to Paris. It was our home, but I suddenly felt a stranger there, and while Bauer returned with new vigor, new ideas, and restored confidence, I suddenly felt that my creative spark had been crushed.

And so began nineteen thirty-six, the year which, when I look back upon it, was last year of our true peace.


	14. Chapter 14

Returning to Paris felt strange. It had been my home for my entire life and yet suddenly it felt like just another city, just a place like any other. A place that had little hold upon me. I suddenly wanted to travel, to see some of the places Victor had told me about in Switzerland and Italy, to travel further and experience places that were new to both of us, with Bauer by my side.

But travel was not as simple as it had once been.Though modern travel is now much swifter it also, to my old mind, seems a great deal more complicated, and by the beginning of nineteen thirty-six, the world had already changed enough that poor and frightened souls such as myself were almost incapable of traveling further than the journey from Paris to Nice and back again. The world was changing too quickly, and it frightened me. I lost my nerve.

It did not frighten Victor - it enraged him - but he was not fearful as I was. He was ever the brave one.

You told me at dinner yesterday evening that you felt on tenterhooks reading my memories, for I have mentioned often the storm that was building, and my inability to protect him and love him and understand him as I should have, but you must continue to be patient, I am afraid, for the story must be told in order - one cannot jump straight to the climax without understanding the characters' development - and so it shall be with this tale.

You also pointed out that an affair which lasted more that four years should hardly be called brief, which I suppose, for a young person such as yourself, may seem true. But I am an old man. I did not meet my Victor until I was thirty-five years old and I have lived too many years alone since our parting. My time with him amounts to barely a tenth of my life, a thin slice of my existence - and I used to pray that we would remain hand in hand for all times. And so I maintain that our affair was brief, for it was too short for me, and has left me ever thirsting for more, ever grieving, and never to be satisfied.

And now I do not know how to continue. I do not want to leave Nice but those happy memories are more painful in their way than the unhappy ones and so I must, though I do not know quite how to continue. The year that followed our vacation south is not one I have ever wanted to dwell upon.

Although, according to the historians, the war did not actually begin until nineteen thirty-nine, the tension in Europe was already at breaking point by thirty-six and France was a nation surrounded on all sides by fascist regimes and the threat of force and invasion was ever present. I found work at that time writing for the ‘Front Populaire’, the coalition of parties that went on to form a new government in May of that year, work which ensured me a small wage and kept me from despairing the loss of my poetry too greatly by keeping my mind occupied, but the pain was still there. I could not write, could not imagine, could not put down one word and follow it with another and day by day my despair grew, quieted only when I was given notes from my employers and the task of turning their words into usable propaganda.

Bauer treated me gently, offering me tender, comforting touches as I struggled with my inability to write anything of meaning or insight. He understood, as an artist, the fear of losing one’s creative spark and he watched me closely, grieved with me as and when it was needed, and continued to love me through that period of my life. I see now that it is the melancholic, depressive side to my personality that reared its head that year. There was no reason to it, no logic, and Bauer’s own work became troubled and frantic in response as my creative block ate at me and painted my soul in tombstone gray.

Suddenly it was not Victor but I who hesitated at leaving the apartment, not for fear but simply because to do so seemed too overwhelming. I was more than content to write about the political climate and express clearly and eloquently what Leon Blum and the rest of his party wished me to about their political agenda, but I did not wish to talk about such things and it suddenly seemed that every man on the street had an opinion that needed to be heard and discussed... and I simply could not face it. It was too much effort. I let Bauer speak and debate in my stead and rarely left our rooms by day, except when specifically invited by the Surrealists, or when Victor pleaded with me.

We maintained our handholding - could not bare to do otherwise after the easy closeness we had been allowed down at the coast - but were forced once again to hide behind drama and artifice, and this time it was I who struggled to maintain the charade. I spoke less and less at public gatherings and it was remarked by some that I seemed less like Bauer’s brother and more like his dog, gripping his hand and trailing after him wherever we went. I could not bring myself to care about their mockery, and Victor never forced me to be any more than I was able, even when I saw worry in his ever-wide eyes.

Sex was one of the few things that could awaken me from the fog of my half-existence and Victor treated my body with such care and adoration that often it made me weep - yet he never judged me. Even when civil war erupted in Spain and Bauer found himself involved in the lobby to give assistance to the republicans (a call which was not heeded, much to our nation’s shame) he still found the time to be with me and give me what I needed, though I was not so adept at meeting his need for conversation and connection.

It is unsurprising that I did not notice at first that my Bauer had a new interest, a new intensity that drove him out of the house each morning. He would kiss me - the kind of kisses that are messy and cause jolts of need to erupt in one’s belly at the sheer want and enthusiasm of them - but would end those kiss with an instruction that I try to wash and not drink all of the vodka or wine, before he hurried out the door. I would be left cold in his absence and, though it may be a hard thing to understand, without his directions I truly would have struggled to make up my mind to bathe and dress. Often when he returned I was clean but still naked and he would look into my eyes and see the pain in my heart and head that neither of us had a hope of understanding.

On those days he would lower me carefully to our bed, kissing me softly as his fingers ran over my skin - so well know to him by then - and I would lie back and let him move my body like a rag doll. Often he would turn me over on to my stomach and pour oil over my back and buttocks, massaging the needless stress from my muscles before spreading my legs and using his fingers to bring me to the brink of orgasm. Sometimes he would roll me back over so that he could rub his erection against mine to find our release together. Other times he would simply stop, leaving my body thrumming with need as he removed his fingers from inside of me, despite my whimpers, and sit between my legs, his breathing harsh and uneven. I could never see his face when this happened but I could feel that within himself Victor feared that there was something precious that was about to be shattered if he did not tread more carefully. Often my desperation would spur him back into action, thrusting his digits in and out of me with increasing force that ended in a violent orgasm. He would continue to thrust his fingers in to me until he achieved release by his own hand and I was left overstimulated and boneless in the centre of the bed, the covers beneath me wet with my seed and my back wet with Victor’s.

Then there were times when he would continue his ministrations but with aching care, working his fingers inside of me until the pleasure was a frustrated ache, never increasing his pace, forcing me to wait patiently until my body was overwhelmed by the slowness and gentleness of his assault and my orgasm, when it happened, was somehow far off, distant, a finish but without satisfaction. On those days I would roll myself over and pull him desperately to me, taking his member into my mouth and encouraging him to hold my head tightly as he thrust into me, my own true release coming when his orgasm jolted and shuddered into me.

Whatever we did together, he always took me in his arms at the close, offering comfort and unconditional love.

“My Rosey,” he would murmur to me, his slender body pressed against my older, spreading one, as he pressed heartfelt kisses to the slope of my shoulders. “Come back when you are able, Rosey. Find your way home to me, my love. I shall be waiting, past the darkness... I love you, Rosey. Come home.”

I felt so ashamed of my weakness, a man reduced to a creature who could barely function, but together we were eventually able to climb from that pit, broken and bleeding within our souls, but alive. Through Victor I regained myself, but it was a year of my life lost, and I do not wish to dwell upon it. Violette tried to help me, as did several of the gentlemen of the Surrealists who recognised the symptoms of my self-destruction, but I pushed them all away, wanting only Bauer, an act that I now see was incredibly selfish, yet he stayed, and after a year and some months had past I finally began to feel strength within myself again.

It began with a simple verse of four lines. I awoke to their form swirling in my mind, a sensation I had all but forgotten, and quickly rose from the bed to write them down. Bauer was at his easel by the window, using the first rays of the morning to paint by, with not a stitch of clothing upon his person. He looked somehow more than human that morning, the light giving his pale skin a golden glow, highlighting the planes and curves of his body, and his prominent bones. I could see them shift beneath his skin as he moved about, wielding his paintbrush - he had lost weight again - a fact I had not noticed or had concern for but which now caused a twinge of worry to rise in my gut.

I wrote out my poem quickly, scribbling it on to a scrap of paper before it could allude me, and when I looked up I realised that Bauer had not yet noticed me. I crept across the room but he was so engrossed in his work that he did not see or hear me until I lay the paper, and it’s four simple lines, down next to his water jar. He looked up, not quite surprised as much as intrigued by my presence, and then a smile spread across his worn face and his eyes began to fill with tears at the sight of me. It was so very humbling and I made the promise to myself in that moment that I would regain myself for his sake.

He read my words and kissed my lips and then, before I could think of a word to say to him, he was in my arms, paint smearing both of our chests as his colour laden brush was trapped between our bodies. And it made me laugh. A vague, silent sort of laugh, but a laugh none the less. And Bauer kissed me again, his passion rising and his joy flowing into me like wine as his tongue tangled with mine and his warm body pressed hard against me.

He dragged me over to the armchair, our lips still locked together, and pushed me into it, climbing into my lap to continue the work of him mouth. But between kisses he began to speak, mumbling ideas and thoughts and pieces of news and things he had seen and I realised, as the numbness slowly ebbed from my mind, how very much he had missed speaking with me, and our meandering conversations, and that suddenly he could not hold in his words or his emotions. I took his face lovingly in my hands and held it back from my own face, so that his lips were separated from mine, and the words spilled forth from him as I kissed his cheeks and throat. His chest was shaking against me as he spoke, his words interspersed with sighs and gasps as I laved at his tender neck with my lips and tongue, but he knew that I had given him leave to talk, and so he did, and I felt as if I were relearning his person, in both mind and body, and it was glorious.

He had been busy in my absence. It was nineteen thirty-seven, almost his birthday again, and he had done a great deal in the light of the political instability our government was facing. He was one of the few who had thought to help those who had fled the Spanish civil war and even as our own supply of food had dwindled he had been hard at work arranging for food and clothing to be sent to the refugee camps, selling his art work to fund the charity, and I was astonished, but there was more to come.

“Otto,” he whispered breathily, and my lips stilled against his heated skin.

“Your father?”

He nodded and I felt something horrible begin to rise up within me, a desperate urge to protect my Victor and seek retribution against the man who should have loved him most dearly and yet had not. But Bauer shook his head and nuzzled in against me, his lips seeking me out and kissing along my cheek until his nose rubbed against mine, like a cat seeking affection.

“Do not think that,” he murmured. “It is not as you suppose.”

“Why did you not tell me of this?” I asked him, trying to maintain a clam I did not feel. He shrugged.

“I did not want to alarm you at first. And I did not know whether he would try to contact me, or wish to know me. I had no desire to be the one who sought him out... when I discovered that he had come to Paris.” I grunted at that but he hushed me and I held him tightly as he continued. “I did not tell you because I did not want to cause a fuss if it came to nothing, and then when he did contact me I did not want to tell you of him until I had decided whether it was worth it for me to do so. You have been... preoccupied, my love. You have been unwell, and I did not wish to add to your burdens.”

“Burdens,” I echoed and felt him nod his head, his dark hair tickling my neck and shoulder, bringing to my attention how much his hair, and mine, had grown.

“Yes, my love,” he told me, capturing my lips in a lingering kiss before continuing. “You have been so unwell, but I think perhaps you are beginning to recover now?”

I certainly hoped I was and felt the relief flow through his thin body when I told him so, but I needed to know how the situation between he and his father stood before I could begin to fathom my own state.

“Why has he come to Paris?” I asked, not wishing to use the name of the man who did not deserve either the title of father or to share a name with my beloved Bauer. “What has made him believe he is worthy of speaking to you again?” I asked bluntly.

“He is dying,” he responded with equal frankness, shrugging his shoulders and pulling away from me so that I was forced to confront the war of emotions battling across his features. “He will soon be dead and feels his work is not done.”

“And what is that to us?” I asked, my irritability growing further when I read the answer upon his face. “No,” I cried. “No. He will not put you to work. You shall not be slave to his bidding. Not after all this time.”

“But Rosey,” he whispered as his eyes slid away from mine to stare at the curve of his knee against my thigh. “He feels remorse, he has said as much, and-”

“Has he said so much in words?” I pressed, feeling more awake than I had in months but also much closer to panic when I considered the situation and Victor’s fragility when faced with his childhood hurt and desire to be the sort of son his father might have actually wanted.

“Not as such,” Bauer confided reluctantly. “But I can feel it in him, Rosey. He has been more than civil to me, and impressed by my political connections, he-”

“-should not be trusted,” I finished for him but he shook his head.

“He has confided in me all that he did as a member of the Italian resistance before he was forced to flee. I am sure that he is being honest in his opinions and only wishes for my help in maintaining his correspondence with his contacts in Milan. Please, Rosey.”

I was not entirely sure what he was asking of me, begging from me, but I relented and held him close once more, stroking my hand down his spine as he breathed deeply against the crook of my neck. I became aware once again of just how thin he had become, his skin as delicate as tissue paper against my large palm as I held him and, after a long period of stillness between us, he resumed his kisses, his movements becoming fevered and desperate, sweat beginning to slick his chest where it was pressed to mine.

It was the first time in over a year that I had been the one to guide our actions and it was enlivening. I had rediscovered my purpose - to protect and love Victor Bauer - and even though my journey toward recovery of mind and spirit was a long one, on that day I knew that it needed to be done. Bauer had cared for me, loved me, kept me alive, but now he needed me. Because he was, despite his sharp wit and sharper mind, still naive when it came to malice and those who might lie to him and do him evil in return for his goodness. He would need my cynical distrust and fear to deal with his father, and when I eventually met the man my fear only increased.

Otto Bauer was a man of great charisma and psychological power and it was obvious that Victor still worshipped him, despite what he had done. He was a man who could send his own son into the lion’s den, and in to death.

He was the man who did.


	15. Chapter 15

As I was informed this afternoon that giving you those pages only three hours ago was not the generous gift I believed it to be, and that pausing the story where I did was not acceptable, I have set about to write for you the next chapter in our sorry tale, though you may regret learning of it. You questioned also my lack of detail, and asked me how I could write so little about an entire year, but the simple truth remains that I was locked within the prison of my own mind for those months, almost twenty in total, and could not see out to save myself. And my recovery was not a sudden thing, a snap decision or miracle cure, oh no. It was nothing so simple. For months I still spent one day in three fighting to rise from my bed, struggling to recall whether I had washed or eaten,hindered by the disturbing turn our lives took over that year, but I had a goal in life now - to protect my Bauer at all costs - and, word by word I slowly found myself able to write again, though my poems reflected my fractured state of mind. And I returned to the world, if somewhat altered.

But I am certain that you have little time for such troubles when there is yet another villain to reveal, and he was such a villain in my eyes, and remains so still. Otto Bauer, when I met him, was small and frail looking, victim to a wasting disease that his doctors had long washed their hands of. He should not have been an imposing figure, weak and dying as he was, save that his eyes were like burning coals, and that the structure of his face bore a heavy similarity to Victor’s - like a rough, early sketch to a finished masterpiece - his nose straight and unbroken, his cheek bones less defined, and his eyes as dark as Victor’s were light, yet the similarities were there. He held the last vestiges of a handsome man, whilst Victor was in full bloom - was beautiful. 

I was taken to his sick room the following day (after I had washed and shaved and Bauer had spent some twenty minutes calming my nerves with soft words) and when we arrived it was immediately apparent that Otto Bauer felt his current accommodation to be inadequate. He had not been pleased to see me, which gave me a great deal of pleasure, and had attempted to speak to Victor in his native tongue that I might be unable to understand, but Victor had held my hand firmly and replied to him only in French. This was no small gesture, for I knew that it hurt Victor to think that he had earned his father’s wrath, but during that initial visit, whenever I felt my lover’s strength beginning to waver, I gave his hand our three customary squeezes - I. love. you. - and saw Victor square his shoulders and raise his chin each time, fighting against the venom of his father’s snide insinuations. 

Yet he said nothing against the man, even when he was called the most vile names, insults he was paid because I stood with him, holding his hand, thus confirming the truth of Victor’s sexuality. 

“Frau,” he said with slow venom, reclining in his bed and glaring at his son with intense hate, and in return Victor simply shook his head.

“No father. He is my...” I watched as he searched for the best way to describe our relationship but offered no suggestion to help him. I saw later how difficult it must have been for Victor, wanting redemption from his father but at the same time painfully aware of my fragile state of mind. He did not wish to admit himself to his father, but neither did he wish to deny what I was to him and he clenched his jaw against the sorrow of it. “He is my partner in art and in life, and my closest friend, but we do not...” His voice petered out once again and I felt sick that he was so humbled by a man who had no right to question him.

“You are a pervert,” Otto responded darkly, eyeing our clasped hands as he spoke, but I refused to let go of Victor’s fingers. “You always have been. You have broken God’s law. You are too steeped in evil to make amends for your soul.”

“No-”

“Yes!” Otto barked in his thick, Austrian accent, silencing his son even as his fragile ribcage rattled and heaved. “And it has been a burden on me, knowing what you have become. This disease is my punishment. You are killing me.”

“No...”

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice suddenly soft to match Victor’s but his eyes still hard and sharp. “And so my work will go unfinished, the battle left and the war against fascism lost.” 

“Surely I could...”

Victor’s voice was less than a whisper and the shame I heard in it caused my chest to ache and my blood to heat, for how dare he be made to suffer. I watched as the storm of emotions flickered across his face, unsure of how I could proceed, not wishing to make the situation worse, but my indecision was our undoing.

“Surely you could, what?” Otto sneered. “Surely you could do your duty, Victor? Victor? Surely you have thought over what we discussed the last time. I ask so little of you. You will give me what I ask so that I may rest soundly when my time comes.”

“Yes... father,” Victor breathed, his face pale, his voice a breath and skin around his eyes tight with worry and something more, something I could not read. 

And so we left. Otto snapped a command at his son and Victor took up a sheaf of papers from the bedside and nodded several times, releasing my hand in order to gather up the scribblings of his father and keeping his eyes downcast in an attempt to avoid the sardonic grin of Otto Bauer. 

My relief at leaving that room was so intense that I felt light-headed and, when we exited into the street I leaned against the building’s wall to draw in deep, calming breaths as beside me Victor did the same.

“Well...” I said eventually, staring at the sky, scattered with clouds as if it could not decide whether it should be bright or stormy - an idea which for some strange reason annoyed me greatly. 

“Well,” Victor replied, and his voice was heavy. “That did not go well at all.”

We walked back to our apartment in silence, though the journey took half an hour and I was bursting with questions and fears. The sun, when it appeared, felt good against my skin and warmed me almost as much as Victor’s body pressed close to mine as we walked the narrow backstreets to our home, but it was not enough to balance the fatigue that was beginning to overwhelm me once more. I had been out of doors for a little over two hours and yet I felt more drained than the days when we had used to walk the whole day around the city, visiting friends and viewing galleries. I craved my bed, and Bauer’s warm body in my arms, but now knew that such a desire could not to be indulged at every moment, for Victor needed more from me, and as difficult as it was to be what he needed, I knew it had to be done, and fought with myself to make it so.

“I take it your last meeting with him went more smoothly?” I asked when we were through the door and Victor had shed his coat. 

He grunted and crossed straight to the stove to prepare a pot of coffee and a large part of my mind urged me to let him be, to quit, to close my mouth - and yet I did not, because what I had seen in that sickroom had frightened me more than my own self-defeating nightmares and I needed to know.

“Victor-” 

“Argh!” 

Bauer swore viciously as he whipped his finger away from the flame below the coffee pot and I rushed to his side, grasping his hand in mine and sucking the injured finger into my mouth. It caused a shiver to rush through him and his eyes slid closed as I curled my tongue over the burned digit, trying to ease the pain yes, but also desperate to show him that I was there for him, and could help him to ease the tension that threatened to snap his thin body in two. 

“My Rosey,” he groaned, his eyelids fluttering and colour rising in his cheeks.

He had been so very pale during the meeting with his father and on the journey home, and it was a relief to see his cheeks return to their usual pink, but then the colour deepened and I realised that his body was flushing with more than just the relief at being free from his father’s gaze.

I hummed around his finger until he moaned desperately, the noise strangled and needy, and when he urged me to my knees before him I did not hesitate, taking him in almost greedily, a surge of joy rushing through me along with his orgasm. It was fast and hard and the act left us both panting, his hands clutching at the kitchen cupboard and my forehead pressed to his thigh. He tried to speak but his breathing was too ragged and he eventually gave it up, instead sliding down to the floor to hold me tight to his chest, lips pressing dry kisses to my lank curls whilst I listened to the frantic beating of his heart.

Even when he had recovered himself Victor made no further effort to speak and we spent the remainder of the day wrapped in a silence that gradually became comfortable but not comforting. We cooked a simple meal, ate it in bed, stripped, kissed, and slept, and it was not until the morning that followed, when I was woken by the sound of rain against our window, that Victor finally told me what he felt so bound to do.

I watched his face, so beautifully carved and perfectly lit by the grey light, and listened as he explained that his father expected him to not only write and encode but actually deliver his secret letters to his contacts within both the Spanish and Italian resistance movements. He was obviously conflicted and I could see the pain, fear, obligation and shame etched into the lines of his brow, but there were other emotions there as well, only less clearly defined, and it troubled me that I could not identify them. My brain felt hazy, my eyes unfocused in a way that had nothing to do with my sight, and I found that I could not put forth a coherent argument against such madness.

“But it is dangerous,” I pointed out stupidly, but he only sighed and pulled the covers more tightly about his shoulders.

“It is a cause I believe in. Socialism is the only defense against the monster of fascism, I believe this with my heart. How can I sit comfortably idle when the fight is at our doorstep? Despite the chaos that is our own government, France is still more stable than all of her neighbours. Italy is in the clutches of fascists, Spain is falling to them, Germany has embraced something even more frightening and has designs upon her smaller sisters, and Austria simpers and does whatever Germany commands. They have dropped bombs on Spanish civilians, Rosey! Innocent people are dying while Germany tests new weapons and parades about at her borders, showing off her might. We alone are the voice of reason and Otto is right, we must do what we can! I must...”

His speech had been passionate to the point that tears began to blur his vision and he blinked his eyes furiously, wetting his cheeks and lashes as his words trailed away bitterly. And I believed him. War was returning, we all felt it now, but I could not see why he should be involved, why he should risk himself when the danger was inevitable.

“What can you do?” I asked him, unable to summon any passion to my own voice. “You are one man, Victor. What can you do against armies and weapons and bombs?”

“I must try,” he begged me softly, fresh tears tumbling from his eyes. “I must. For...”

“For Europe or for Otto?” 

His eyes closed at that, and I knew I had hit at the heart of his pain, and his desire. He pursed his lips into a thin line, their usual red turning pale as he fought to justify his actions but I knew that whatever he told me was the result of a lifetime of neglect and his desperate desire to be loved and accepted by his father. It frightened me that Victor had so quickly fallen back in thrall of his father, despite the man’s treatment of him, and I resolved to accompany Victor to all future meetings with the man, as hard as they would surely be. It became one of my reasons to dress in the morning and my anger at Otto Bauer sparked the rebirth of my other emotions, but on that grey Spring morning even my anger was a new and flickering thing, and I was near to being overwhelmed by the despair I felt at seeing my Bauer’s self-loathing and guilt.

“I must make amends,” he told me. “Otto is right. I am a stain on our family’s name, he is right to hate me. He is dying because of me... because of what I am... I must at least try.”

I pulled him close to my chest as he began to weep, stroking his silken hair and trying to hold my own tears at bay as I willed my brain to think more clearly, for both our sakes. It was obvious to me (thanks to Bauer’s books on psychoanalysis which I had read when I could find nothing else to hold my attention) that a part of Victor had regressed in the face of his father’s reappearance in his life. He was being emotionally manipulated and even his vast intelligence could not safe guard him when it was his heart that was being ensnared so tightly. He could not be reasoned with and my brain was in no fit state to do any real reasoning.

“Very well,” I told him eventually, barely recognising the rust of my own voice. “We shall do his bidding. But we shall do it together.”

~

And so we did. We were ordered to tell no one of our plans but Violette knew, and disapproved, Jana knew and took it upon herself to care attend to Otto when we were absent, and many of those in our social circle suspected that our strange disappearances and sudden reappearances were connected to the rising tensions at the borders, though it was never spoken of directly. 

We travelled once a month, to either Andorra and the Spanish refugee camps that huddled there, or to the camps that had sprung up on Italian border near Braincon, and soon built up our own networks to ensure that messages and news were passed reliably over international lines. Some times we went as ourselves - two traveling artists seeking inspiration. Other times we were antique dealers with thin moustaches and Swiss accents, other times again we were brothers on a journey to find our Spanish mother, or a married couple on an extended honeymoon. Victor particularly enjoyed that story - dressing up and wearing his long hair in feminine braids and twists atop his head, batting his eyes at me whenever we were stopped near the border and questioned. It was one of his greatest disguises, for no one suspected a woman of passing secrets or fueling plots - at times he was near invisible when dressed so completely as a woman - but such a disguise held dangers too.

On one particular evening, as I sat by the edge of a camp on the French-Italian border, smoking a cigarette and trying to appear nonchalant as I waited for Victor to return from his rendezvous with a contact in the Resistance, I heard a scream that was unmistakable and made my heart begin to pound with such force that I feared I would faint. I ran toward the sound, hearing further shouts and the sound of a scuffle as I approached and then, finally, found the place where Victor lay on the open ground between the camp and the official border. There were two men - Italian soldiers. One had forced Victor’s contact to the ground, a knee to his spine as he yelled that he was a traitor, whilst the other had done the same to Victor, grasping at his braided hair and leering in a manner that made the vomit rise in my throat.

“My wife!” I yelled to them, summoning what little Italian Bauer had been able to teach me. “You have found her! God bless you! Brothers, come quickly, she is found!”

Victor was immediately released when I called over my shoulder to my imaginary reinforcements, but the noise had in truth brought a few others running from the camp, though they stayed back from the border and the men with rifles. The soldier pushed my ‘wife’ roughly toward me and I took hold of him, feeling the intense trembling of Victor’s body against my own, and embracing him in a way that was obviously very convincing.

The soldiers turned on their other captive then, kicking him and demanding to know his name and who he worked for and Victor and I fled, hating our cowardice in leaving our Italian comrade at the mercy of such men but knowing that there was nothing we could do for him, and that our own safety was precarious.

“Thank you for coming when you did,” Victor whispered to me when we were safely back in the small tent we had erected at the far end of the make-shift border town. “He wanted to... make use of me, you know. He told me as much. And I... well...” he panted shallowly before finally taking control of his body and his voice, “just imagine the disappointment if he had actually lifted my skirt.”

“Disappointment?!” I spluttered, taking his face firmly in my hands and searching his features for some clue to his true meaning. “ Do you know what he would likely have done to you? You think it would have stopped at disappointment?!”

“Well, obviously,” he replied with a shaky voice a shakier smile. “I am circumcised after all. And Jews are not exactly popular just now. I think he should have been deeply disappointed, don’t you?”

I had laughed at his words, hysterically, uncontrollably, for the only other option was admitting how close we had come to very real danger, and I could hear the terror in Victor’s own laughter and how grateful he was that I chose to play along with his nonsense rather than dwell on the peril we had so narrowly avoided. 

We made it a game, to preserve our sanity and to hold back the fear, but it was a difficult business and I began to see that the world was more cracked than I had supposed. Everywhere we went we saw signs to military action and destruction, death and disease and fear, and I began to suffer attacks of anxiety and panic on a near daily basis at the memory of the refugee camps we visited, secret missives being handed out along with blankets and socks. 

Victor lived on his nerves, his body vibrating with adrenaline when we were on a mission, then collapsing the second we returned to Paris, and I knew that we would not be able to continue long. We were artistes rather than spies, but nothing I could say or do would convince Victor that he needed to stop. Only Violette was able to do that.


	16. Chapter 16

I dreamed of him last night. 

I dreamed of those treacherous journeys and the nights we spent in that abysmal tent, and of how it should have been miserable, yet somehow Victor made it something better. I dreamed of making love in the cramped space of our tent and how Victor would whisper the most ridiculous things in my ear as he teased my body. Erotic things, stories he had made up in his head to explain what we were doing in the context of the characters we had adopted. There were ludicrous stories to explain why brothers or business partners or ‘friends’ would find themselves in such a risqué position, designed to make me laugh and squirm. When we were ourselves he recounted the story of the first night we met and how hard he had worked to seduce me (according to his tale of events), and how much he had lusted after me- and the humour of the stories, as well as the erotic detail, gave us both a way to relax and laugh in a situation that was often perilous.

But last night, in my dreams, he was above me, his body golden in the light of our small lamp, the canvas of the tent orange as it curved above him, and his face - rather than obscured by the fall of his hair - was exposed and open to me, for his dark locks had been wrapped over the crown of his head in a braid, just as he had worn when he posed as my wife. He should, by rights, have looked preposterous dressed in a cream blouse and deep blue skirt. He should not have been able to do such things with his hair. But his mother had worn her hair in such a fashion, he told me, and the style was simple enough to replicate once one knew the trick. The clothing was Jana’s, altered to fit, and the wedding band on his finger, not true gold at all but a theatrical prop, had been a gift from his beloved chorus girls. He should not have looked so very much like a woman - and yet his sex was never questioned. 

And when he was dressed in such a way - as my wife - the stories he would weave for me, whispered breathily against my ear as he ground his erection in to mine beneath his skirt, his chest bare and heaving... they haunt me. 

I thought that I would be able to pass over those events but it seems I cannot, his memory will not allow me to. I have not thought of those times for so many years and yet suddenly they are with me, and my heart is clutched with a longing that... reminds me too greatly of my depression, and I do not wish it to return. You have seen the marks left upon my body, you know what it did to me the last time - how close I came. It has caused me a great deal of panic these past few hours, the depth of my resurfaced desire because, though I find it painful to admit, being told Victor’s ridiculous stories of our supposed wedding day, of our meeting, our wedding night, of the home we were to return to as husband and wife, affected me far more than any of his other bedroom stories. Because deep within me I should have loved to have been truly and openly married to Victor. I know it seems bourgeois to wish for a wedding s well as ridiculous to wish to marry a man, but perhaps one day it shall be a reality, in your life time if not mine.

All I shall have is the scrape of his false wedding band over the skin of my chest, the sound of his breathy gasps as he pressed against me, the pattern that the lines of his forehead made as he neared his peak, the scratch of his woolen skirt against my thighs, the slick of my erection against his, the way the flickering candle light danced, the press of his lips against mine as he called me husband...

I hated those journeys, those ‘missions’ as Victor called them, for a great number of reasons and yet, those memories... those I cannot hate. But I was pleased when those months finally came to an end.

Everywhere we went we saw men in military uniform, wielding guns that, for the most part, I did not recognise. I had wanted to see more of the world, but not like that, and when I saw artillery at the the Italian border - missile launchers so similar to those I had been in training to use during the last war - I almost lost consciousness, so intense was my panic. I needed to stop, but I could not let Victor continue on his own, which he surely would have done, for with each letter successfully delivered, and letters received in return, his father offered him slight praise and the suggestion of redemption, but he held Victor ever on tenterhooks and reminded him that his relationship with me was his undoing.

Secretly I wished that the old man would simply die, but he lingered spitefully, and I began to despair. I dread to think what would have happened if Violette had not stepped in and worked her magic upon us yet again. She rescued us both several times in her restrained, considered way, and was a better friend than I deserved - and was the friend that Victor needed. She had a way of speaking to him that reminded me of a mother speaking to a young child, not in a patronising way, but as one who loves their child very dearly and wishes to instruct whilst also building the child’s confidence. She was blunt when reprimanding me (which was often) but careful with Bauer and when we returned home late one evening, our train having been delayed some three hours and the bus that took us from the border territory of Vallée d’Aoste delayed five hours before that, she used Victor’s exhaustion to her advantage. 

~

“I saw the light at your window,” she said by way of greeting when I answered the knock at our door. “I thought you might need checking on.”

Her eyes swept over my face, taking in my exhaustion and the new lines etched into the skin around my eyes from fear and worry, before moving on to Bauer, who was seated in the armchair, his head in his hands and his thin body obvious even beneath his clothing.

“Would you like a drink?” I asked her when Victor failed to respond to her appearance and Violette turned to me with a smile which was both sad and loving and nodded her head.

“I brought wine,” she said. “And bread and cheese. Getting hold of anything more than that is proving difficult just now,” and then in a low whisper, “is he alright?”

“Tired,” I answered, which was rather an understatement and her raised eyebrow was a silent command for more information, which I gave her readily. “Our bus was boarded by soldiers. They were looking for someone, I think. They dragged Victor out of the bus because they doubted his passport.” I shrugged. “It was a fake so it is hardly surprising. They roughed him up but their commanding officer announced that he did not match the picture of their man so they eventually left.”  
   
My words were impassive and Violette scowled. I could see the reprimand on her lips but was too exhausted to care. I had been petrified when it had happened and it had only been the rifle aimed at my chest that had stopped me running after Victor when he was pulled from his seat and out on to the road, but when he returned, covered in dust and grazes, a trickle of blood seeping from his hairline, he had refused my help, refused to be touched or to have his cuts tended to, and had not looked at me until we arrived at the train station, and his eyes when I had seen them had been dull and grey.

I was taken by surprise when Violette hugged me but did not resist when she put her arms around me and began to slowly run her hand up and down my back, gentle and soothing. I melted into the sensation and felt my own exhaustion begin to take over but knew that I could not bear to sleep, for I had not eaten in over a day. 

Violette guided me to a cushion by the chair and my legs collapsed with the slightest encouragement, my back leaning against Bauer’s leg and his hand creeping in to my hair to stroke at my bedraggled curls. She sighed at the two of us but neither of us had the strength to look up at her or tell her anything further and so she cut us bread and poured the wine and let us eat before she tried to speak.

“This must stop,” she said simply, her own voice drained. “It is becoming too dangerous, Victor. You must tell your father-”

“It is fine!” Victor snapped, and I looked up in surprise.

“It is not fine,” Violette responded wearily. “You have dried blood in your eyebrow. Gui has lost weight, as have you. Every month you return with some tale of how you barely escaped capture, and for what? What could your father possibly be sending that is so important?”

Victor looked up at her with a look that was both pitiful and pleading and I saw Violette’s anger waver.

“Has... has Rosey truly lost weight?” he asked in a small, childish voice and my soul bled, for he had lost more than I and his face was indeed still smeared with blood from his ordeal with the border patrol. 

Violette nodded solemnly, knowing how to best get through to him, and Victor looked down at his hands ashamedly.

“My sweet one,” she said, kneeling by him and placing a hand to his knee, “I know you want to be a good son to your father, but... Surely you have done enough? What can he possibly be writing that requires his only child to deliver it in person?”

“I cannot...” Bauer’s voice wavered and I saw in his eyes that he was trying to decide whether or not to break his silence - a silence he had kept even from me. “... I... he has been receiving leaked information from the Italian government, their plans and the details of their soon to be signed pact with Germany. And he passes that information on to members of our own government (at a price, I believe). He himself is a General in the Italian Resistance Movement. They plan to overthrow Mussolini. He sends orders. He hopes the Spanish will be his allies. He... needs me.”

I clenched my eyes shut against the pain of his revelation but Violette pulled Victor to his feet so that she could hug him fiercely. 

“It was your birthday two months past, Victor. Did your father wish you a merry day? Did he celebrate? Did he know?”

“He... That isn’t important,” Victor murmured, and I heaved myself up so that I too could embrace my love, who seemed far too fragile to be living such a life.

“Not important?” Violette whispered mournfully, and I wrapped my arms around her as well, pulling them both into a tight hold. “Do you believe that?” she asked despairingly. “And in three months, Victor. Will you allow us to celebrate with you your anniversary? Seven years between yourself and Gui. Is that important to you?”

“Seven years?” he mumbled in shock, and I must admit that I too was taken aback to realise that we had been together so long. 

I felt as if no real time had passed since our months at Nice, let alone three years, and yet it was the summer of nineteen thirty-eight, I was a man in my forties, and the time I should have spent enjoying and worshipping my Bauer had been spent in fear and worry and survival. I hated myself for my weakness and my failure. I still do. And if it had not been for Violette we might have continued on in the same fashion with no final moments of grace or joy.

“Seven years, Victor,” Violette confirmed. “Is that not worth celebrating?”

“But,” within the circle of my arms I felt him tense and pulled my arms around him tighter. “You cannot tell my father of that, Violette, you cannot. It would be our undoing. He would not keep such a secret, he would be disgusted, he would... he has made it clear what he thinks of me and my... he will shame me, Violette, please. Don’t?”

“Oh, Victor,” Violette said in a voice that was almost a sob. “I would never do that to you. No more than I would reveal you and Gui to Breton or Perez, or to anyone else for that matter. I would not dream of it. But surely the fact that your father does not respect who you are, and does not acknowledge your birthday or the relationships dearest to your heart, is evidence that he is using you. You said once that he hated you and that you could not think of him as your father... has anything changed since then, really? He is using you, Victor, and you must be free of him.”

He said nothing in response but his shoulders shook with his silent sobs and Violette’s face shone with her own tears as I held them both. I knew that the pain being inflicted was necessary, and that Victor needed to come to terms with what his father was doing to him, but that did not stop me from wishing to save him from suffering. With Violette’s assistance I maneuvered him into bed and removed his clothes, hissing at the bruising on his ribs from where the soldiers had kicked him. He made no attempt to help or hinder me, his eyes were shut but he did not sleep for tears still streamed over his cheeks and into his hair and his lip was caught painfully between his teeth, and so I lay him gently on the ancient mattress and covered him with every blanket I could lay hands on, desperate to stop the chill of his skin which should not have been there on a summer’s night. 

I stayed by his side until he seemed to finally be sleeping, stroking his back while Violette petted his hair, and then we returned to the armchair, curled up together with a bottle of wine each, and got very, very drunk. And hoped that the next morning Victor would finally agree to separate himself from Otto and the strange life we had found ourselves living. 

~

That night, cramped as I was, asleep on a chair with Violette’s head on my chest, I still managed to dream. It was a dream of bombs and fire and the muted sound of screaming. And amidst it all stood my Bauer, one moment dressed in his fitted cream suit, the next in his blouse and skirt, the moment after in his silk kaftan the colour of the sea, his hair wild about his face as he attempted to contact me using the crab phone he had made those years ago at the cottage at Nice. But in the dream I could not reply, for my own phone had been destroyed and all that I had were shards of crab shell and twisted scraps of metal.

I awoke from that dream with a jolt and a feeling of dread, my head aching and my stomach churning, and a desperate need to hold Victor close and reassure him of my love. And so I did. I carefully settled Violette into the armchair and covered her slim frame with a blanket, noting that she too had lost weight over the last year, and then crawled into bed beside my Bauer. His body was warm and soft under my hands and even in his sleep his foot crept back to tangle between my legs, seeking comfort and offering it all at once. I pressed my face into his nest of hair - which was past his shoulders by then even when tangled - and fell back into a sleep that was blessedly dreamless, if short.

~

That same dream however, never really left me, and was the last to visit me this very night past... so I fear that now I must set my pen down for a while and step back from my memories. They are my bête noire, my life’s blood and my anathema all at once, and I must set them aside in favour of a walk in the garden and that new book of poetry just arrived from London. 

My mind feels raw and I must let it rest for today. Perhaps tomorrow I shall write more - if my heart is not so heavy.


	17. Chapter 17

When he woke that morning there was a _moment_ \- a moment before recent memory returned to him - when Victor smiled up at me dreamily and pressed his warm skin against mine and hummed with sleepy contentment. But then reality seemed to come back to him all at once and I felt his body become very still, his skin erupting in goosebumps and his hands digging in to the flesh of my waist convulsively. His nails were as short and raggedly bitten as always and I remember clearly the painful scratch of them, not enough to break the skin but enough to leave a mark as he clung to me.

“Rosey?” he breathed, looking up at me with watery eyes.

“My Victor?” I responded, shifting my body more firmly against his and pressing a kiss to his brow, wincing a little at the tang of dried blood and sweat on his skin.

“Violette is right,” he whispered, his lips wet against my collar bone as he spoke, and I felt a jolt in my chest at his apparent change of heart. “Oh god, Rosey. I should have seen it, should have realised, and yet I have been so absorbed that I missed what was right before my face. Rosey, will you forgive me?”

“Of course, my love,” I said in a rush, kissing him again and blinking back the tears that were pricking at my eyes. “Of course. There is nothing to forgive, I-”

“How can you say there is nothing to forgive?” Victor interrupted, his voice cracking with strain. “I can feel your ribs under my fingers, Rosey! I can feel the press of your pelvis against mine! How could I have done this to you? To let you accompany me when you were unwell and then fail to notice when you began to fade away. And it is obvious now! How could I be so selfish? Rosey, how can you forgive me?”

I resisted the urge to sigh, but only just, for he had managed to miss the point spectacularly, but in a way that was so sincere and loving that it tore at my heart.

“Victor,” I mumbled into his hair. “Oh, Victor.”

“You shall have to remain here next month.”

“No. Victor that is not the point. My health is not the point! Don’t you remember what Violette said to you last night? You must know it is true,” I pleaded. “Otto is using you. Please, Victor, you must see it. This cannot, must not continue.”

I was begging him, my voice desperate and weak, yet I could not make myself sound strong, and when his arms tightened reflexively around my middle I was horribly pleased that at least my pain seemed to be getting through to him.

“I do not wish to see you hurt,” he said in a small voice, the words hitching as his tears returned. “But I cannot bear to hurt him again either, to see him disappointed in me. What do I do?”

I was lost. So utterly, terrifyingly lost. Brash, passionate, angry Victor I could deal with. Manic, jittery, and even upset Victor I could handle. But when he regressed... when he became a lost child in need of comfort and direction... I was useless to him. I could not glean his thoughts or reflect his emotions and so I could not help him.

“When you first told me of him,” I said, choosing my words with care. “ You said that you could not think of him as your father, because of what he had done to you.”

“I-” Victor hiccuped. “I was young and stupid and-”

“-Completely justified in your feelings,” I countered. “And you are not stupid. You have never been stupid.”

“I am compared to him,” he said softly and I felt the brush of his damp eyelashes against my chest and the press of his nose as he shook his head. “I was-”

“-a child!” I said with possibly more force than was necessary, for he jumped in my arms and curled in upon himself as if expecting a blow and my heart, already broken, crumbled all the more into smaller, unfixable shards as I realised the implication of such a reflex. “You said that he hated you. You were a child and he hated you. You were his son and he abandoned you - threw you to the wolves and offered you choices that were not choices at all! From what I have seen he is still of that mind. A few months past he called you mentally incapable and sick and threatened you again with an institution if you dared to be so open in your ‘ _perversion_ ’, as he called it! My ‘ _perversion_ ’! Our ‘ _perversion_ ’! And-”

“-and I know all of that, Rosey!” he wailed, and it was a relief to hear a spark of his usual fire returning to his voice.

“So why must you continue to be loyal to him?” I pressed on, hoping to encourage his anger and with it his critical mind. “After all he has done to you and made you do?”

“Because I cannot simply stop! I cannot turn off my love for him, he is my father!”

The words hung in the air between us, fading slowly as Victor burrowed his head more firmly against me, and I was grateful that he could not see the confusion on my face, for I fear he would surely have pitied me. I never knew my father and had no experience of such dutiful love, or a love that could endure in the face of hatred and rejection. When I finally spoke I knew that my bewilderment was obvious in my voice but simply could not fathom Victor’s loyalty.

“But he is hurting you.”

“... I know. But... recognising that he is being cruel, and being able to actually break free from that, they are two very different things, Rosey. They are two very difficult things.”

I felt like a monster as I continued - manipulating him when he was so horribly vulnerable - but I was determined to end Otto’s hold over him. Violette had planted the seed but it was my duty to finish things.

“He is hurting me as well, Victor,” I whispered. “I need this to stop. Please, do it for me?”

His tears, after I spoke those words, erupted uncontrollably and his sobbing seemed to tear at his lungs and throat, his fingers leaving my waist to pull at his hair. His entire body seemed to shrink in on itself, coiling and tightening until I feared that he would break. And he did, and his tears were greater than when he had mourned the death of his mother. But still I believed that what I did was right, and when Violette ran to our bedside upon hearing the commotion and saw Victor’s distress she nodded to me, the skin around her lips and eyes tight with the pain she felt on Victor’s behalf, but the look in her eye was of satisfaction - elated save for the profound sadness she felt at Victor’s pain - and I felt that surely we would win through.

He cried for what felt like hours, though such could not possibly have been the case, and would not look at me or Violette for some time, wishing to be alone, or as solitary as one could be in our cramped quarters. But he did emerge eventually, his eyes swollen and his body visibly shaking under the weight of his anxiety. When he had recovered himself enough to speak Violette and I both agreed to go with him that day to his father’s room, and I was grateful to Violette because I knew that there was a chance that both Victor and myself would have flagged in our resolve if left to face the man alone, having been cowed by him in the past. Violette, we knew, would have no fear in standing up to the man and even encouraged Victor to wear the clothing he felt most comfortable in, rather than the ill-fitting suits he usually wore to meet with his father - clothing chosen to hide his figure and his shame - and I watched the parade of emotions march across his face as he attempted to decide how far he should push Otto if this were to be their last meeting.

“I think perhaps-”

“-the pale blue?” I suggested, reveling in the ability to foreknow his choice, and in his smile of delight that our minds were once more in sync.

“The blue, yes,” he replied.

“And I shall wear mine,” I told him and he blushed delicately, a look upon his face that I had not seen for so very long, and I was filled with something akin to courage, of finally being able to protect and help my lover as I was meant to do. So we stepped out together, the three of us, and I hoped fiercely that we would be able to free ourselves of the darkness that was Otto Bauer’s influence.

~

The room, when we arrived, stank heavily of sweat and illness - a dark smell that pinched the nose and hinted strongly of death - and Victor hesitated at the sight of his father’s frail body reclined against the yellowed bedclothes. He appeared to be sleeping but as we walked through the door his eyes snapped open and both Victor and I jumped in surprise. Violette did not. She walked toward the bed in her slow, considering way until she could look into Otto Bauer’s eyes, and folded her arms across her chest in a manner that made me shiver.

She had been waiting for this opportunity, I realised, probably since the day she had unwittingly heard the tale of Victor’s sorry childhood, and she was determined to see Victor finally freed from his father’s thrall, and did not intend to be intimidated by an old man’s glare.

“Who is this?” Otto snapped, sneering at Violette before asking the question of Victor, who hurried to the bedside with his bundle of letters in hand.

“This is Violette, father,” he told him, keeping his voice steady even though I could see the tension thrumming along his shoulders. “Violette Lafon, this is Otto Bauer.”

“And what is she?”

“Violette is my friend, f- Otto,” he corrected himself subtly and I felt so proud of him in that moment as he struggled not to simper under his father’s glower. “My very dear friend. And she has come with me today to...”

“-lend support,” I finished, and stepped forward to take Victor’s hand in mine as Otto’s glare was directed at me.

“Lend support?”

Strangely, that gaze, which had once seemed so overpowering, suddenly appeared feeble, and I glanced at Violette to give me the strength I needed to maintain myself as I continued.

“Indeed. We thought it best that Victor have the support of his closest friends today, in meeting with you for the last time.”

“The last time?” Otto’s eyes narrowed - two dark pits of hatred and anger, and beside me Victor nodded.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I have come to the decision that I cannot continue with our arrangement. The roads are no longer safe, nor are the border towns or refugee camps. Military presence has increased on all sides.” his eye twitched where the bruise from his run in with the border patrol had bloomed into a small purple lump over his temple and I tightened my grip on his hand. “And Rosey’s health has deteriorated. I cannot bring him with me and I cannot leave him on his own so often. I am sorry, Otto, but I cannot be your messenger anymore.”

The old man’s lip curled in a snarl but Victor did not flinch and I was so very proud of him for that. I did not mind that he had used me as an excuse, not if it was easier for him to do so, to justify his need to stop, but Otto was unimpressed.

“His health has deteriorated?” he said scornfully, and I noticed Violette bristle at his tone and he teased his son. “He does not know what it is to be unwell. Do you not think that if I was well enough that I would deliver my missives in person? His health! Such nonsense. You foolish boy, he is trying to trick you.”

“No,” Victor replied forcefully. “He would never trick me, would never lie to me. He is my-” he faltered for a moment. “He... he is not well.”

“He is weak,” Otto spat at me. “And if he is unwell I am sure he could be attended by that whore who you send to me, useless though she is. He is not an invalid, he does not need you for a nursemaid.”

“Jana is not a whore,” Violette interjected. “And Victor is not foolish. Hold your tongue and let him speak.”

“How dare you speak to me, woman,” Otto said, turning his anger on Violette but she was not so easily cowed.

“I dare a great deal, monsieur,” she said quietly, her voice like a snake in long grass. “For I have seen the results of your treatment of your son. I have heard what you did to him and I have witnessed the damage your influence has wrought. And we shall have no more of it.”

Otto opened his mouth to speak but coughed instead, his lungs heaving and shaking as he fought his body for breath, his sallow cheeks turning an unhealthy shade of grey and purple. Victor moved to assist him but I kept my grip on his hand and he stepped back, and the three of us watched silently as he spluttered and wheezed.

“You... harpy,” he gasped. “I have done no such... only what he deserved... he is disturbed...”

The coughing continued but the words we were able to hear made Victor close his eyes in pain and I wished I could hold him and reassure him but knew that such an action would not be welcomed under such circumstances. It was sickeningly obvious that Otto was no nearer to accepting or forgiving his son than he had been when Victor was eighteen and publicly exposed by his ex-lover, and that the redemption he had been dangling before his son like a reward had never been seriously considered. Otto had no intention of accepting his son, no matter what Victor did for him, or how he risked his life, and I watched as Victor’s lower lip trembled as he too came to terms with such a horrible truth. But whilst he stood mute in his pain Violette had no intention of keeping her thoughts secret.

“You truly think that of him?” she asked, her head cocked to the side, gazing upon him as though he were some sort of vermin she had unexpectedly discovered in her kitchen. “You think he deserved to be driven from his home and disowned by his parents? Or do you think he should have been locked away? Put in to solitary confinement. Drugged. Beaten. Neglected. God only knows what else. I have seen those places, Monsieur, and I would not wish such a life upon even my greatest enemies. Not even on you. Yet you were willing to do that to your son? It is you who is disturbed, Monsieur, not Victor. And you shall not hurt him again.”

The quiet of the room was thick, like a winter mist despite the heat beginning to seep in through the shuttered window, and I resisted the urge to applaud Violette’s words, brave though they were, because Otto, after staring long and hard at the petit woman who had dared to speak out against him, had turned his attention back to Victor, whose eyes were still shut but who seemed to sense the attention all the same.

“You would let a woman talk for you?” he rasped, his lips thin and blue as he struggled to speak. “Are you so little a man? I tried to make you a man... But you are beyond help... beyond saving... And you would deny me - your father - my dying wish? The world shall fall... and it shall be... upon your head... and at your feet...”

His voice faded with a rattle of his failing lungs and I watched as his body stilled, not thinking to inform Victor of what was happening, my eyes locked upon the sight of Otto Bauer finally losing his battle with his own mortality.

There is a strange, subtle shift that takes place when a body changes from being a living person and into a piece of decaying flesh. It is not simply the lack of movement and breath, that is obvious enough. No, there is something more - an immediate sapping of the body’s colour, and a glazing of the eye, like curtains drawn across windows, and the sense that the dead person’s body has shrunk, that something has been taken. I do not think that I believe in the existence of the soul or of Heaven or Hell or ghosts or angels, but, having seen death as I have I will admit that I understand how people might believe in the existence of the soul, for the moment of death does put one in mind of a shell being vacated, of life being swept out and up into the ether.

And such was the case that day. Without even a gasp to mark his passing Otto Bauer died, the light fading from his eyes along with his fiery hatred. And, in the seconds before Victor realised something was wrong and opened his eyes, I smiled.

~

Our walk back to the apartment was silent and Violette and I glanced at Victor constantly, wary of his pale, impassive face. He carried in his hand his father’s small, battered case, filled with his correspondences of the last two years, which he had gathered together methodically and calmly in the minutes after the death and carried it with both hands, which meant that I could not take his hand in mine to offer him comfort even though I was desperate to calm the pain that I could feel radiating off of him in waves.

He had not cried over his father’s body. When he had opened his eyes and seen that Otto was finally dead, that we were free, he had simply stared at the corpse, blinked, and then turned away to begin packing away the man’s papers. He paid the landlord the next week’s rent and informed the man that he could sell everything in the room on the condition that he arranged the removal of the body, and then had left. He had not paid any mind as to whether Violette or I were following and had shown no hint of emotion in his face or voice, and it frightened me more than any other mood I had witnessed from him.

When we entered our rooms I expected him to return to his bed (which is what I would have done) but he did not. Instead he went to his corner and picked up a brush, inspecting the hairs that were dry and brittle from disuse, before turning to his paint powders with a determination that bordered on the unhinged. Realising that he had no canvas or paper in front of him I hastily gathered up what paper I could find for him to use and he took it from me wordlessly, locking his eyes to mine for a long moment instead, and I stepped back silently to where Violette stood in the kitchen cutting up the last of yesterday’s bread.

“How is he feeling?” she asked softly. “What is he thinking?” and I was surprised by her confidence in me, and that, when I opened my mouth, I was able to answer her.

“He does not know how to feel,” I spoke softly, even though I knew he was beyond being able to hear me. He had already stripped off his suit, standing in his underthings and painting frantically and for a moment I was completely absorbed by the way his linen thin skin stretched over his prominent bones. “There are too many battling emotions,” I continued, “and he cannot focus on any one long enough to feel anything. The only emotion coming through with any strength is pain, and he does not wish to feel that. He does not,” my throat tightened painfully around the words but Violette’s palm on the small of my back helped me to continue. “He does not wish to feel anything just yet, not when there are so many conflicting emotions. He needs to ground himself - and lose himself - and that is what painting can grant him. Later, perhaps, I shall be able to comfort him, but...”

We stood in the dim corner of the apartment watching Victor as he worked, his movements fluid and beautiful, though often frantic, and his hair a mess of dark waves about his face and shoulders. We lit the stove and made coffee and toasted bread and watched him work until the day began to fade into dusk and I noticed the tell tale droop of his eyelids and shoulders, though he remained focused on pulling forth the colours from his mind and capturing them on paper.

“What should I do?” Violette asked me suddenly and I was jolted by the vulnerability in her voice. “I feel so responsible for his pain, Gui. What should I do? How can I help? How can I beg his forgiveness?”

I pulled her into my arms, unused to comforting her when she was so adept at caring for others, but offering her what comfort I could. I was always surprised by how small a woman she was in reality, when she seemed so much larger than any of the problems she had faced in her life, and as she melted against me I held her as tightly as I dared, willing her strength to return.

“You know he is incapable of withholding forgiveness to anyone,” I told her. “Except possibly himself. And you are not responsible for his pain, Violette. Never believe that.”

“But what should I do?” she mumbled against my chest and the fear I heard in her words frightened me.

“Go home and sleep in your own bed,” I replied. “You may feel more yourself for a proper night’s rest. And then meet us tomorrow night at the Café de Vie. He will need the company by then, and the wine most probably. He will recover, I promise you.”

She agreed with a nod and left, asking me to follow my own advice and sleep, but we both knew that as long as Victor stayed with his paints, I would stay with awake with him.

It was a long night, which is a ridiculous understatement. He fell asleep two hours before dawn, leaning against the wall, smeared in paint, the dark shadows beneath his eyes merging with the bruise on his temple, and I gathered him to me and carried him awkwardly to bed, resolving, as I did so, that when we woke we would speak of how Victor was feeling. And then, I decided, we definitely needed to wash.


	18. Chapter 18

Losing his father was a horrible blow to Victor. As much as he had spent his life swinging between adoration and hatred of the man, Otto’s death was not the relief that I had hoped for, for Victor, because his love endured despite his knowledge that that love had never been reciprocated. It seemed that Otto Bauer’s influence would continue on even after his passing, his abusive treatment of his son marring his creativity and intelligence, undermining Victor’s belief in himself. It lasted, I believe, the rest of his days, a scar of guilt and shame that did not heal properly and pulled and pained him regularly. It was to be his eventual undoing.

~

I awoke to an empty bed the day after Otto’s death, and was immediately overwhelmed by panic, leaping up and tripping over the sheets that were wrapped about my legs, landing heavily on my knees in a way that would have been comic were it not for the intensity of my anxiety. Our rooms were silent and Victor was nowhere to be seen and my panic rose until I feared I would vomit, though there was little in my stomach to bring up, and I pulled myself upright hastily, kicking the sheets away from me as I hurried to search for my love. 

There was no note, no sign of where he had gone or why - or when - and I struggled to calm myself enough to assess the situation, looking out of our window and estimating the time at early afternoon, and noting that his clothing from the day before was not on the floor where he had left it, though I could think of little use for such information. I did not know when Victor had left or what he had intended and my thoughts spiraled dangerously. Looking over his paintings from the day before did nothing to allay my fears for they were rushed and frantic with none of his usual detail and care and the emotions they broadcast (for my Bauer’s work always purveyed some sort of emotion) were of pain and guilt and grief. Angry swipes of red cut through grey patterns and half formed faces peered out from the shadows in a way that made me feel uneasy and all the more concerned for Victor’s well being.

I dressed myself hurriedly, knowing that I needed to find him, and rushed down the stairs with such speed that I nearly fell and was so absorbed in maintaining my balance as I reached the front hallway that I failed to notice that someone was entering the building, their arms laden with food and their head down.

We collided harshly and I finally, inevitably, hit the ground - sprawling backwards under a shower of pastries, carrots, onions and a bottle of sweet smelling olive oil - my head bouncing off the wooden floor and causing pain to race through my spine like an electrical current as the wind was knocked from my body.

“Rosey!” Victor cried, gathering up the food hurriedly and then kneeling beside me to carefully cradle my head in his lap, for it was he who I had collided with. “What on earth were you doing, Rosey?”

I blinked up at him, trying to regain my focus, but was distracted by the dampness seeping through my shirt where the olive oil had hit me.

“Why are oil sellers incapable of putting corks correctly into their bottles?” I asked him, dazedly, truly astounded that such a thing should happen to me twice in my lifetime.

Victor laughed at that - threw his head back and laughed in a carefree manner that I had feared he had lost - his entire body engaged in the act of joy, and I smiled as well, if a little woozily, as his loud cackle turned to irrepressible giggling.

“Perhaps it is just you, Rosey,” he told me softly, stroking the hair away from my face and gazing down at me with his eyes tired yet overflowing with affection. “Perhaps the bottles simply anticipate. They know that I will wish to lavish you in oil and so they oblige. You cannot be angry at them for that, surely. They are only trying to be helpful, in their simple way.”

I grunted by way of reply and tried to move but Victor tutted at me and continued to pet my hair. 

“I thought you had gone,” I told him, watching his lips draw into a thin line and his eyes narrow as he picked up on my concern.

“Gone where?” he asked, but I could only shake my head against his thigh.  
“I do not know. Just gone, I suppose.”

He bit his lip at that and I felt that he had perhaps been considering it, that he was not entirely past such thoughts, and that he was not wholly sure why he had returned.

“I love you,” he whispered eventually, and I lifted my hand to the back of his neck, pulling him down so that I could kiss him. 

The angle was awkward and the conditions strange but after a few moments I felt a heat run through him and his lips pressed more forcefully against mine, his hands tightening in my hair as the kiss deepened, our tongues lapping against one another’s despite the fact that we were sitting on the dusty floor of the stairwell, in view of any one who chose to walk through the street door.   
We released each other eventually, in order to breathe, and when we did Victor’s breath against my cheek was ragged and close to sobbing, the laughter gone and his other emotions so near to spilling over that I could taste them. I pulled myself slowly to my feet, gathering up the food Victor had obviously just bought, and then held out my hand to him, reveling in the jolt I still felt in my chest at the warmth of his palm against mine. Together we made our way back to our home, but there was a tension between us as well, the knowledge that there was much we needed to speak of and emotions that would need to be released, but not just yet. 

When we had reached our room I went to pull away in order to remove my oil damp shirt but Victor refused to let go of my hand and we put the food down awkwardly in the kitchen, hands still clasped, before he pulled me insistently toward the bed.

“Let me?” he whispered soft and low and I breathed deeply, relinquishing my will in favour of his and allowing him to tug my shirt over my head and push me onto the tangled blankets of our unmade bed. 

He rubbed his hands over my chest, spreading what was left of the oil and reaching for the bottle that was always kept by our bedside for more, pouring it over me reverently. The slide of his hands over my nipples made me gasp, which brought the ghost of a smile to his mouth, and he ran his hands down my arms to wipe the oil from them before turning his attention to my remaining clothing, and then his own. 

“Beautiful.”

The word escaped me as he climbed on to the bed and knelt above me and it floated delicately in the air between us, the only way I could think to describe him, and the blush that rose in his cheeks was a confirmation of my assessment, for he was the most beautiful human being I had ever known, and yet he was eternally ignorant of it.

“I love you,” he told me again, and I could see the tears building in his eyes as he fought to keep himself in check, even as his hands began to stroke my skin once more. “Even when he threatened to expose me, or have me sent away to a hospital for what I am,” he continued in a voice that was both timid and yet sparking with passion, “I could not stop loving you. He shall hate me for eternity, his soul shall have no rest.. because of me, but-”  
“But surely you do not believe in any of that?” I inserted, my mind in shock that I had never considered Bauer’s religious beliefs and that he had never given any hint that he had any.

“Do you know,” he said, after a beat of silence, taking up his oil bottle once more and drizzling more of it’s lubricous contents over my stomach and hips. “In the days of judges and priests, when a hero or king rose up among the people they were anointed in oil as a sign that they were chosen and worthy, often before they even knew their own worth... And from that first night, when you told me of how Ernst spilt his oil upon you in the street and that was how you came to be invited to the party... like Fate... it has been my great pleasure to do the same to you whenever I can - to continue your anointing. For you are, to me, my Rosey, the most worthy man in this world, and the one of greatest worth, and not even my father could usurp you.”

His hands had moved down to massage my hips and I watched as a tear escaped the sweep of his lashes to fall against my thigh, but he did not stop his movements. He swirled his hands over my abdomen in circling motions, running his fingers through my pubic hair over and over until he had succeeded in bringing my penis to full arousal. His own member was barely beyond flaccid but he focused solely on my pleasure and I felt powerless to move or say anything against him. I had relinquished my will to him and so I lay, spread out and oiled before him, willing to let him do whatever he wished and trusting him to never cause me harm. 

“Even if the world does crumble, does fall down upon us,” he sobbed quietly, taking me in hand and beginning to stroke whilst he spoke, causing my hips to buck of their own accord. “It shall not be your fault, Rosey, I need you to know that. You are special and I would give anything for you, my dearest, my constant Rosey.” His pace quickened and I grasped the sheets beneath me as the desire within me began to coil, more quickly than I would have liked. “Whatever happens, Rosey, you are my anointed one. I do not know what will become of me, what will happen, what will be expected by my father’s contacts, but... These things, these terrors, they will not destroy you. I can feel it, somehow. I only pray that you do not regret...”

His words trailed away as he leant forward and slowly ran his tongue up the length of my erection before taking the head in his mouth and I struggled to think over all that he had said to me, all that he was trying to say, as I was enveloped by his warm, wet, heat.

“Please forgive me,” he pleaded when he had risen to draw breath, pressing his lips against my engorged member as I twitched beneath him, desperate to put his mind at ease but floundering for words as my brain continued to be overwhelmed by the physical sensation. “Forgive what I was under my father’s control. I was not... I did not...”

“Victor,” I finally gasped, petting his hair comfortingly and trying to draw myself back from the edge in order to answer him. “There is nothing to forgive. He was a cruel man, but his harsh words were just that - words. Threats and curses that hurt to listen to but have no real power over us. He was wrong to treat you so, and we are not responsible for his machinations, or for what he started. And whatever happens now, to his ‘contacts’, that is not our fault either. Victor, my love, even if the world does fall upon your head and at your feet, I will never regret loving you.”

His mouth crashed into mine, a sudden and violent clash of teeth and tongues as he pressed our bodies together, his chest sliding against mine and causing me to shiver with want and a need so intense that I grasped his backside fiercely and thrust against him.

“Turn yourself over,” he panted against my lips, his own body quivering and tense, and I released him reluctantly in order to roll on to my front, suddenly desperate for release, not just for myself, but for him as well, to feel him unravel so that we both might rebuild ourselves together.

The feel of oil dripping between my buttocks was not a surprise and yet I still gasped, which became an exclamation when he slid his hand down the crease of my backside. I pressed back against him, beyond desperate now, and began to plead with him, saying aloud every secret desire of my heart.

“Please?” I begged him. “I want to feel you, all of you. I want more of you inside of me than just your fingers, I want-”

My breathing stuttered as he pressed a finger within me and I pushed back against it until I felt the knuckle of his hand bump against the delicate skin of my entrance. I continued to beg him, moving my body according to his rhythm and moaning like a wanton when he breached me with a second finger. Still I wanted more, wanted to feel him fill me properly, to feel his body shudder and release within mine.

I had long let go of my misconceptions about intercourse as the consummating act of our relationship, that was not what I was seeking, I do not think. I simply felt the overwhelming need to give myself to him, and to feel him as deeply as I humanly could, and for him I wished to physically embody the safety and acceptance that he craved. It is a strange collection of desires and needs to describe, and almost impossible to truly do so, but I knew that Victor felt the shape of my desires and understood me for it was not long before a third finger was edging inside of me beside the other two, causing a stretch the like of which I had never felt before. 

My entire being felt like it was afire and the noises I made, I will admit, were desperate and high. I pleaded for Victor to take me and eventually he let his fingers slip free of me and pulled me to my knees, massaging my backside with slippery fingers and pressing biting kisses to the base of my spine.

“I love you,” he whispered wetly against my skin and I nodded dumbly as he straightened and brought his now erect member to rest against my entrance.

“I love you,” I managed to splutter before he began to push inside of me, stretching my body anew and forcing a heavy moan from my lips.

It was more intense than I had imagined and I could easily understand how Victor’s own experience of intercourse had been traumatic and yet for me the burn was delicious and the stretch of my muscles invoked a sense of... the opposite of homesickness... of homecoming, perhaps. And I was lost in the clamoring sensation, a feeling that only increased when Victor began to move his hips in a gentle rhythm of thrust and withdrawal. 

His fingers dug into my sides, hard enough that they seemed to be scraping against my bones and I felt the pain and need and aching sadness within him, like a chasm within his heart, a gaping emptiness, a howling that needed to be silenced, screaming at him that he would never be enough, that he was irretrievably lost. And it bled into me through the contact of his hands and the pulse of his manhood inside of me as he began to move with greater force.

I was barely coherent - despite the whirring of my mind - clinging to the sheets as if at any moment I too would be swept away but eventually communicated to Victor that I wished to turn over onto my back. He withdrew from me shakily, clambering backwards to allow me to move but I did not let him go far, knowing that if he had time to think too deeply about his actions the fear would erupt and become untamable. 

I pulled him into the circle of my arms and thighs, guiding him back to me and this time, when he pushed into me, the sensation was of alignment, completeness, home. I held him close to me and felt him sigh against my chest, his rhythm less frantic than it had been and more intimate as his hips met my backside in a steady beat that began to send sparks flying through my abdomen and up to my head, lights bursting before my eyes as my orgasm built.

“I love you,” he whimpered, his lips wet against my sternum as I held him, and he continued to whimper shallowly as his pace increased and I felt his stomach muscles clench in anticipation of his own release. 

“I will always love you,” I replied, rolling my hips up to meet him, pulling him in to me, holding him secure in my body, my embrace, until abruptly, like a gunshot, my orgasm ripped through me, muscles rippling and tightening and my skin flushing violently hot.

He followed me almost instantly, his mouth opening wide with a silent cry in an exact mirror of my own, his hands gripping my shoulders hard enough that small bruises began to blossom, but they did not concern me. My body was floating on the heady rush of endorphins that our love making had induced and the gentle pulse of his sated member within me matched my heartbeat to the point that, when it slipped free of my body, I gasped in fear for a moment, thinking hazily that my heart was no longer beating. 

Victor nuzzled his cheek to my breast to reassure me before sliding up to press his lips to mine in a lazy, drunken kiss. 

“Do you feel-”

“-better?” he answered breathily. “Yes, I think so. Thank you, Rosey. What would I be without you?”

“More than I would be-”

“-without me? Probably.”

We both laughed at that, relief running through our veins and making us loose limbed and relaxed.

“There is still a great deal we must talk of,” I reminded him, when his lips left mine for long enough for me to speak.

“I know,” he replied. “And a great deal to do, but-”

“-there is time.”

“Yes. But there is one thing that we must do quite urgently,” he said, the mischief growing in his voice with each word.

“And that is?”

“Bathe! We stink horribly, you especially!”

I laughed soundly at that, feeling my ribs heave against his as he grinned at me naughtily, proud to have elicited such a reaction.

“My thoughts precisely,” I said, when I had recovered and truly, between the dust, sweat, blood and paint of the last few days, and the oil, tears and semen of the morning, I am sure that we must have smelled and looked atrocious, but it seemed a trifling thing when compared to the joy of having a smiling Bauer in my arms and the belief that our lives would return to normal. If only it had been that simple.


	19. Chapter 19

Our story continues...

 

My dearest --------,

I must begin, of course, by reaffirming my assurances to you that I am quite recovered and perfectly capable of putting pen to paper. The doctor was with me again this morning and feels confident that my heart is strong and hale and that the incident of Friday evening was nothing more than an old man’s ‘funny turn’ as he so eloquently put it, and not the more serious attack we both feared it was at the time. I must continue then by apologising for so neglecting my writing to you. It has been painful to me to be incapable of continuing the story whilst I have been incapacitated but even without the distraction of a troublesome heart I fear I would have found it difficult to put my mind in order enough to relate to you how things began to end. I have spent these last two hours trying to decide how best to put this into words. It is a peculiar thing, is it not, that on some days one might write several thousand words all of which sit perfectly side by side in rows that flow just as they aught, and then on other days even the most basic adjectives evade one’s grasp. So it has been with this narrative, but you need not fear, it shall be finished, my heart is strong enough for that, I think.

And so nothing else remains but to continue where I left off in the tale, in the aftermath of Otto Bauer’s death, nineteen thirty-eight, the beginning of the end. 

~

Victor, despite his smiles and easy disposition the day after our first joint experience of that most intimate form of intercourse, still grieved his father deeply. He reluctantly agreed to come out with me that evening and was welcomed so warmly by his friends - actors and dancing girls and models for the most part - that I very quickly saw the heat rising in his cheeks and the tears in his eyes at such a broad show of affection. He had not realised just how greatly he had been missed and we drank deeply of the wine that we were treated to by Monsieur De La Corre, the owner of our favoured club. 

Jana cornered me within minutes of our arrival, her face tense and her fingers twisting harshly around the tassels of her shawl, pulling the threads tight against her skin until they left white marks against the brown.

“I went to Monsieur Bauer’s room today,” she whispered, her head down and her entire demeanor betraying her nerves. “Just to... find closure? I am not sure, but I went. I am sorry, Rosey.”

I shook my head at her, wishing to reassure her in some way but not entirely sure how to go about doing so. We had only ever spoken to one another fleetingly and she had never before sought me out and, strange as it was, I began to realise that despite the several years of our acquaintance we were relative strangers. 

“There is nothing wrong in doing so, Jana, and we appreciate all that you did for him in our absence. I know that, despite his general unpleasantness, you appreciated having someone to speak to in your native tongue.”

She nodded at that, her eyes still downcast, and I could sense that there was still more that she needed to tell me.

“He was not so unpleasant as he made out, lonely and bitter certainly but when he spoke... his ideas...” her eyes flickered nervously toward the corner table where Victor was gulping his wine in a manner that was sure to give him terrible hiccups and a worse hangover. “He... had many visitors in the last few weeks, Rosey. I believe that he knew he was dying. He... left a will. What was left of his fortune he wished to be put toward his funeral and tombstone - not an unusual occurrence, I assure you!” she hurried to add when she saw me recoil at the knowledge that Otto Bauer had willed the last of his funds to his own remembrance. “Our people are pompous in death. They were once so in life as well but... things are different now.” Her eyes slipped down again, to the tassels still wrapped about her fingers, and I noticed how the tassels, and the shawl they were tied to, were worn and faded but of beautiful design and quality. “Monsieur Bauer is to be buried tomorrow. It is the Jewish way. I thought you should know. He also... asked that his son not be mentioned in his obituary or in any epitaph at his graveside... His only other bequest was a modest sum that he left... to me. I am sorry, Rosey.”

Her cheeks flushed with reflected shame, at being the one to give such information, but I was pleased to receive it none the less. And suddenly my curiosity was quite piqued.

“Why did you come to Paris, Jana?” I asked softly. “It must be difficult to be so far from any of your country men. What brought you here all on your own?”

Her lips pursed and she sighed eventually, looking up at me with eyes what were large and dark and troubled.

“When I was born I was baptised Johanna Isabella von Hasburg,” she said proudly. “Life was good, those first few years, but then there was the war - my father was killed. Then the nobility was abolished, my mother died, my brothers joined the socialists. I could not stand to be there any longer,” she stopped to let out a huffing laugh and looked pointedly away from me. “I was a stupid child with dreams of Paris, and there is no going back now. We all have darkness in our pasts, I suppose. The trick to life is to not let that darkness cast too great a shadow on our present.”

I pulled her to me comfortingly and her laugh against my chest brought a smile to my own face, for she was right, you know, that we all have our darkness and shadows to contend with, and we do well to remember that before we think too harshly of those we meet, that they too are seeking to build a future brighter than the shadows at their back. 

It was an emotional night all round, I believe. A toast was given in Otto Bauer’s memory, and Violette and I wisely held our tongues for we could see Victor’s need to find closure and peace in the wake of his father’s death, and he was, if not lively, then at least less troubled afterwards. He ended up drinking far too much, leaning against me mellowly as he listened to the chatter and laughter and music, tracing idle circles into the back of my hand with his finger as he hummed a tune that only he could hear. And I felt something nearing peace as well. I knew that our lives could not return to what they had been, that we would need to find a new pattern and sense of normalcy, and I was prepared for Victor’s unpredictable behaviour and swinging moods (and indeed there were many) but I truly thought, somewhere in the dull recesses of my stubborn mind, that our lives would settle back into something docile and habitual. I believed that our adventures were at an end. And instead the world went mad. 

~

It began with the Surrealists, still squabbling over nonsense and attempting to cast Dali out of their circle, a move which always struck me as absurd if not exactly surreal, for Dali spoke truth (in my opinion) when he claimed that he was surrealism. Victor and I were asked to weigh in on the issue and I must admit that in the first moments of being asked I was flattered to still be considered a man worth listening to when we had not been regular members of the once-prized group for some two years. It soon became apparent, however, that Breton chose us because he thought we could be easily manipulated - he had used me well enough over the years to boost his own opinions and approached us at the premier of a film so horrendously bad I cannot even remember its name to request our attendance at ‘The Trial of Salvador Dali’ as he so dramatically put it. 

“We must save our movement!” he exclaimed to us both, having bought us each a neat whiskey in the cinema’s snug. “It is imperative! The most important fight in the world at this moment! I know you shall see my way.”

“You truly think so?” Bauer asked him, his eyes narrowed and his lips thin as he spoke. “The most important fight in the world? You think we should dedicate ourselves to this cause over, say, Mussolini’s tyranny? Franco’s mass murders? Hitler’s take-over of Czechoslovakia?”

Breton’s reaction to this rebuttal was not the one of shock or annoyance that I had expected but a slow, rather unpleasant smile and he stared at Victor for a long and unsettling moment before turning to me and continuing with his speech.

“Dali must be stopped, Gui, he spits upon everything we stand for, has turned surrealism into a money making enterprise for himself, and mocks those who aspire to true art!”

 

“We are all trying to make money, Breton,” I shrugged. “I may not approve of his methods but we cannot hate him simply for craving popularity and he is barely seen in Paris anymore, why should we trouble ourselves to eject him from a group he so rarely frequents?”

My other question of course was why Breton was calling upon me for support, unless perhaps he had lost the support of others higher up the social ladder than I.

“That is, I suppose,” Breton sneered in reply, “the response to be expected from one who has fallen to Gala’s rhetoric - and voracious feminine appetites. I had heard the rumour, Gui, but I did not wish to believe it, that you too had succumbed to her poison and her bed! And your tastes! I have been told of those, Gui. Quite unexpected, I must say! Even for a liberal! And the use of a - But I digress,” he said with the hint of a blush whilst I frowned in confusion over what he could possibly be talking of. “The point here is Gala and Dali. You must see that they are a great evil upon our ideals, our true art! If you join with me and vote for Dali’s expulsion, I guarantee Gui, you shall be redeemed.”

Beside me, Victor bristled at the language Breton used and I felt him prepare to fight the man for so dirtying my name, but he held himself back when I squeezed his hand, a silent plea for calm as the situation quickly escalated. I myself felt paralysed as my brain fought to process what Breton had told me, simultaneously ashamed and angry that my name had been used for gossip among the artistic circle I used to so adore. But Breton was far from finished with us. 

“Nothing to say?” he enquired, leaning back in his chair with an air of condescension. “But I suppose such behaviour is hardly scandalous to such a pair as you. Not when Bauer here is engaged in far more... unspeakable acts, shall we say?”

“I cannot think of what you mean,” Victor said quietly, his face a blank canvas. “But it is strange that you should think that spreading vicious rumours about us will make us more open to your cause. For a man who considers himself a liberal thinker and a socialist your control over this group is verging on the dictatorial and your underhanded methods amount to little more than fear mongering.”

There was a beat of silence when he finished, a moment when the air was thick across the table between Victor and I on the one side and Breton on the other, but Breton plowed through it, a smirk upon his jowled face as he spoke, his voice friendly whilst his words were daggers.

“You do sound so very much like your father when you speak in that vein, Bauer, do you know?”

Victor’s skin went cold and his hand tightened convulsively around my fingers at the statement, but his face remained impassive as he refused to show any weakness to the man he suddenly perceived as a serious threat. Breton’s smile widened in response but his outward demeanor remained civil. 

“Were you unaware that I knew your father, Bauer? We met when he moved to Paris and told me a great deal about you.”

“My father was a liar,” Victor replied, but his voice trembled on the last word and both Breton and I heard it.

“Ah, you see, he said the very same thing about you. Isn’t that curious?”

Victor’s hand in mine was physically shaking now and for myself, the bile had risen in my throat with every word until I felt that it would be a fine thing to vomit all across the man who was threatening to destroy us. 

“You should not believe such false information, Breton,” I told him bluntly. “It is not-”

“-Oh but it is,” Breton rebutted. “And so you shall both help me with this. I know you are both capable of lies and deceit and now you shall do so in aid of my cause. Dali shall be evicted from the Surrealists and you shall make it convincing. Or your secret will be out. Dali believes that art can be apolitical, that he can create what he pleases regardless of the political leanings of those who commission him - you should be pleased to argue against him. And that is what you shall do. Or I shall make the letters detailing Bauer’s most obscene perversion public knowledge. Consider yourselves fortunate that I do not simply do so now.”

He stood and left us there, sitting in the secluded corner of the bar with our hands clasped tightly together and our minds spinning at all Breton had revealed and insinuated. 

“It never stops, does it?” he whispered, his voice so faint it was barely a sound at all. “It never stops and we are never free from those who would destroy us. My god but it is tiring.”

I nodded, not knowing what else I could say for he had spoken my own thoughts, as he so often did, and I had no words of comfort to offer or solutions that would rescue us from our current trial. And so we sat, our hands clasped tightly together - hidden beneath the table and the dim lighting - until the whiskey was gone and the cinema was closing. 

The walk back our apartment was a long one for we both felt more intoxicated than our actual consumption could explain, but we stumbled along in silence until we were safely on the quiet stairs of our own building.

“What...” Victor spoke softly, his throat raw and hesitant. “What exactly did he mean by your bedroom tastes, Rosey?”

“I have no idea,” I answered honestly, my voice equally as rough and felt a relieved breath leave Victor in a rush. “I was completely perplexed when it was brought up and did not dare to have Breton elaborate upon it.”

“I thought as much. I suspect Gala started those rumours. Such a woman does not wish to be seen as spurned and the last time we met you did pour red wine over her breasts... Perhaps that is the strange sexual quirk Breton believes you to favour...”

“It is not funny, Victor,” I mumbled as his shoulders began to shake as we approached our door. “This is serious. Breton would ruin us both. He wishes to blackmail us, harness us. How can you laugh?”

“But it is funny, Rosey,” he said, spinning to face me, though his face held little true mirth. “Absurdly, hideously funny. I am never to be free, am I? Even now, when those involved in that shameful event are dead and buried, still I am to be tormented by it.”

“What shall we do?”

“What ever Breton asks I suppose,” Bauer whispered sadly. “We go from one slave master to another without reprieve. I do not like Dali but the man is still a genius. And we are forced to go down in history as those who expelled him from the Surrealists.” He sighed. “I do not want to be remembered as such a fool.”

I took him in my arms and told him he was no such fool, could never be, and kissed his jaw and neck and face until the smile began to return, like sunshine on a drizzly december morning - weak but still a joy to behold - and we went into our room and spent the night wrapped in each other’s arms, unable to sleep but with no words that needed to be spoken between us. I was desperate to find a way out of our predicament for Bauer was right when he said that we had simply gone from one slaver to another, but could think of no way to ensure our freedom without Victor being put horribly at risk. 

We watched in silence as the shadows of the night travelled over our cramped and decorated walls, fingers clutching at shirts and flesh and legs tangled and bruising as our bones pressed together through skin and too little muscle and fat. When the morning came, grey and glaring, still no solution had presented itself, and Victor drifted somberly to his paints, and I to my pen, like inmates facing the noose, innocent but resigned to the fate to which we were condemned.

And so it went. We played along with Breton’s farce and pretended to care what Dali argued against us. It is true that neither of us were greatly impressed by his crude portrayal of Lenin and Victor was genuinely upset to discover how popular the lobster phone had become for he had never shown another living soul his own crustacean creations, but there were greater problems than these to deal with, for our return to the inner circle of the Surrealists meant a return to their parties, gatherings which now seemed overflowing with dangers.

We spent a full day debating privately whether we should continue to hold hands in public - even in our accustomed stylised manner - for fear that it would fuel the rumours circulating about us. We had heard many of them, tales that depicted me as depraved and sexually insatiable, doing whatever a woman asked of me for the right price, whilst Victor was said to be a willing and submissive third if the lady had the money to spend. They were ludicrous rumours, for we barely had enough money to feed ourselves each day and nothing close to the fees we supposedly demanded for our services, but there was a single grain of truth to the tales, and that was enough to turn people against us.

For it was known by more than a few that I was once a man for hire, in my younger days, and would work for a lady’s pleasure, so the rumours against us were believed and we both began to fear leaving the safety of our rooms, but could not forgo the comfort we found in holding hands, even if it spurred the talk against us. The confidence we had once held was splintered and brittle and we struggled to attend all of Breton’s soirees and maintain the party line.

Victor bore the brunt of the unwanted attention we received, I fear. For, whilst I was approached by women wishing to be taken and ravished, Victor was approached by those who believed we could be bought as a pair, and wished to do some ravishing of their own. It came to a head one night when I returned from the bathroom to see Victor standing flush to the wall with women on either side of him, their breasts pressed against his upper arms in a manner that I am sure they thought was alluring but which I knew would be making Victor feel horribly trapped and uncomfortable. He was not afraid of women, far from it for they made up the majority of his closest friends, but his response to sexual advances from women (indeed from almost anyone, gender aside) was panic.

His eyes, when they latched onto mine, were wide and fearful, a swirl of shallow, sand pool green rather than their usual blue, and I took that as my cue to steal us both away. Once he would have extricated himself with a mad excuse and a joke, charming the women who had him pinned while at the same time removing himself from their clutches. But his confidence had been leached from him and we were forced to rely on my faulty excuse that we were already fully booked and could not possibly help any of the ladies in attendance.

We made our way home as quickly as possible and did not speak until Victor was undressed and tucked safely into our bed, his pale skin prickled with goosebumps yet soaked with sweat and his eyes misted and unfocused. He had spent too many weeks attempting to cope with all that had happened, trying to appear normal and at ease when in truth he was collapsing within and now, finally, he could take no more. 

It pained me to see him so, to know that when once he would have been full of ridiculous and pompous fabrications to excuse himself from such a situation now he had not even been able to flee the room without assistance. We had not had intercourse since that first time and I had not pushed him, knowing that he was grieving and still felt guilt that his behaviour had been so abhorrent to his father, but as the weeks passed and became months we had been less and less intimate, until days went by when we did no more than kiss. It was no wonder to me that such forward propositions as he had been met with should so upset him. 

Yet still we were required to attend on Breton, to protect that final secret, the one which would almost surely have made us outcasts and very probably incarcerated. And when, on that last day of Dali’s ‘trial’ Gala came to sit between us on the sofa whilst Breton and his fellow cronies consulted in his private study, we were both too weak to refuse her advances in a way that she would heed. She separated our hands just as she had before, twining her own long fingers with mine on the one side and Victor’s on the other, and settled herself down between us. 

“Well, well,” she said smoothly, bringing our hands down to her thighs in a manner that made me feel uncomfortable and made Victor begin to shake like a leaf. “It seems that my Dali and I are to be thrown out of your little boys’ club. How tragic. And how hypocritical, considering what other members of this little group get up to. But perhaps there is something you two can do to make up for it? Something-”

We never heard what she intended to say next for Bauer sprang to his feet, his face horribly pale and sweat soaked, his entire being thrumming with tension as he looked about wildly for the closest exit. I stood more slowly, not wishing to startle him further and guided him to the door, hoping to leave without so much as a backwards glance at Gala, who remained on the sofa, no doubt completely unrepentant of the trauma she had caused, but Victor turned back to her at the last moment, his face a portrait of anguish as he all but yelled at her.

“Why does everyone wish to have sex with me! Why can’t you leave me be?”

He stormed from the room but as I went to follow him I heard Gala’s Russian drawl behind me.

“Is he serious?” I turned and saw a lazy smile twitch beneath the thick red of her lipstick. “I thought it was an act but does he truly not understand his appeal? Is he unaware of how many of those women he surrounds himself with are hopelessly in love with him? Of how uncomfortable he makes other men who find him attractive against their more usual inclination? Is he truly so naive?”

I stared at her, long and hard, but she appeared to have no tell, no sign of what she was truly feeling, and continued to gaze up at me with humoured poise. 

“Leave him alone,” I told her bluntly. “You shall have nothing from either of us.”

And so I turned my back on the woman and departed resolving never to return, whatever Breton threatened, and walked swiftly back to our rooms, and the safe haven I assumed Victor had sought. I was not sure what I could expect to find when I had climbed the stairs and arrived at our worn, wooden door. I wondered whether I would find my Bauer hidden under the covers of our bed or curled up in his old armchair with a mug of wine or book or both, or in the thrall of his paints and the catharsis found therein - or perhaps burning his fingers upon the stove in an attempt to make himself more coffee. 

Instead I found him packing.


	20. Chapter 20

I shut the door softly behind me as I entered our rooms, letting the latch click quietly into place, the sound muffled by the press of my back against it as I watched Victor’s frantic packing. He was unaware of my presence, absorbed in his own thoughts and actions as he was, and so I stood, my throat swollen shut with emotion and my eyes itching with the tears that I was desperate not to give in to, wishing that there was some way to fix our lives - to do the impossible.

My memory of the scene is a strange one, like a painting rather than a true recollection, and in my mind’s eye the late afternoon sunlight shone through the windows too brightly, bathing the room in an orange light that was warm and thick but not entirely benign, for it was too harsh, too dense, and hurt to look at too closely. Bauer within the scene was a frantic collection of lines and shadows, a violent contrast to his ochre stained surroundings, and I stood upon the threshold, wondering whether to step into the scene or if it would even be possible to do so and whether, having entered, I would be able to drag my Bauer free.

He was muttering to himself as he was want to do, wondering how much of his clothing he should pack and whether or not to take his paints or his pencils and I let his words wash over me, the sound of his voice, the music of it, swirling and mixing with the painful beating of my heart so that it was barely intelligible. Until I heard my name.

“But what of my Rosey?” he asked himself, his voice rising to a whine. “I cannot pack him. But what shall I do? I need him, I - No, no... I cannot keep doing this to him... Idiot, Victor! Just pack the damn clothes and get gone!”

He ran his hands roughly down his face and I could see the strain in his eyes - could almost visualize the precipice at his back, how close he was to stepping backwards into the abyss - and I realised, in a crushing epiphany, that he had hidden much of his true anguish from me and that I did not know how he had achieved it. He sighed, an old, resigned shadow of a sound, and a tear slipped from the corner of my eye as I understood that he was already lost to me, had been slipping from me in tiny increments for so long, and I was torn between wanting to fight to keep him and the strange feeling within my heart that suggested that it would be in his best interest for me to simply let him go. He knew me to my very soul but I, apparently, did not know him, and the pain of that turned quickly to anger in my chest as I stepped toward him.

“What are you doing?” I asked him, my heart pounding hard enough to hurt, though my voice came out steady and I stood straight backed before him.

My words, my presence, made him jump and he looked up at me with a stricken expression, as if he had been discovered with a bloody knife clutched in his hand rather than a pair of repeatedly darned socks.

“Rosey,” he whispered, and I saw how he fought to keep his own tears back, his lips wet and mouth open and gasping. “Rosey, I-”

“Where are you going?”

He closed his eyes against the question and shook his head.

“It is not...” he began in a stuttering tone, speaking as though the words were being forced from him under duress. “It is not... for want of love for you. I love you, Rosey. I love you one hundred times more than I did on the night we met and, oh! how I fell for you that night. My love for you... it is... all I have left... but it is killing us.”

He collapsed onto the floor by the bed, a wretched sob escaping his throat as his hands returned to cover his face, and I hesitated a moment, torn between my anger and my love, but my indecision lasted only a moment, for I could not stop myself from going to him, from comforting my Bauer, my Victor, my love. I drew him into my arms, holding him close and enjoying the firmness of his body, which always seemed so fragile and yet was really all lean muscle.

I stroked his hair and encouraged him to nestle his head in the crook of my chin, which he did, breathing a deep sigh of relief, though what he felt relief for was a mystery to me.

“Would you truly leave me without even a goodbye?”

He whimpered and pressed himself even more firmly against me, shaking his head fervently, though I did not quite believe him.

“But that is what you were planning,” I continued. “I heard you.”

“I would have written.”

His voice was small and broken and I nearly relented, but his actions had hurt me greatly and I simply could not let the matter drop so easily.

“You would have left me to worry and imagine the worst?” I pressed. “For a week or however long it was to be before you decided to contact me? And then what? Then what, Victor? I would put myself in any peril for you, indeed _have_ put myself in peril for you, Victor, and yet you would think nothing of leaving me. And for what?”

I could feel the damp of his tears against my shirt but Victor himself was silent, the tears leaking between his fingers as he fought to contain himself in the face of my anger and a moment later the heat of my emotions were gone, blown far as I realised that he would be translating my ire into rejection within his head and that even if he had been intending to leave me he could not stand the thought of me not loving him.

I sighed and squeezed him tightly, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head as I worked at returning my own breathing to a steadier rate. It was several minutes before I felt Victor’s body relent his breathing relax enough for him to speak, but when he did it was still with a cringe that betrayed his fear of rejection.

“I just need to escape for a while,” he said against my chest. “I thought that if we left together again it would look... wrong. Would cause talk, would... be the final blade in our back. I thought perhaps we could return to Nice, though we have no money, do we? I simply thought... I would have written to you. I just... I need to leave, Rosey... I am unhappy.”

His words cut all the deeper for being so plain but I understood his feelings, even if I had been unaware of the depths of them. He was unhappy, and Paris, which had once been our home, our safe haven, our paradise, was now a place of insecurity. The world has always looked to that city as the home for liberal thought and art and music, of libertines and love and yet... only weeks before that day two men had been arrested on charges of sodomy, gross indecency and cross-dressing only a suburb from our home and it was well known that the police could be brutal to such ‘offenders’ as ourselves.

We were not safe, I could not refute his fear, and yet we both knew just how dangerous it was becoming elsewhere, and what could befall us if we ventured from the safety of the city.

“Very well,” I told him, urging him to sit up and face me, pushing his hands down from his face so that I could cradle his jaw in my own and look at him properly. “But we should plan it, Victor. I am too old to be doing things in a rush or a panic. Calm down now, my love. It is Violette’s birthday tonight and she would never forgive you if you slipped away before her party.”

He smiled at that, bittersweet and short lived but a smile nonetheless, and I brushed my thumb across his cheek, shooing away a stray tear and stroking the soft, pale skin that I still adored more than anything else on the earth.

“She would not be pleased with me, would she?” he asked, turning his eyes to mine and causing my heart to jolt within me at the turmoil of love and pain I saw in their depths.

“She would give you quite the telling off, I am sure,” I replied, watching as he gave a short, breathy laugh in response and smiling in return. “So, shall we wish Violette many happy returns tonight and then tomorrow plan what we should do next? Do you not think that would be more sensible?”

“Yes, of course,” he said, but something had shifted within his gaze and, despite his smiles and assurances I could not shake the sense that something was still very, very wrong.

~

We attended Violette’s birthday party, which began at her apartment with dinner and wine but ended at a small, smoke filled club where the light was dim and the music was loud and raucous. It was not a place I had often been but the drink was cheap and the dance floor was so full that no one looked askance when Victor pulled me to my feet and into his arms.

I held him close as we danced, reveling in the press of his body against mine, even as I tried to stay alert to any danger, but it was difficult to remember to be cautious when dancing with the man I loved, surrounded by laughing, joyous couples. Victor seemed intent on drinking himself into oblivion and I made a challenge to myself to match him, though I do not think I succeeded. I recall that at one point Violette scolded us for making fools of ourselves like naughty school children but she laughed as she said it and Victor and I were both far too taken with each other to truly hear her.

It was late into the night when Victor finally began to drag me homewards, whispering to me all of the things he intended to do to my body when we were safely behind our locked door and I, inebriated as I was, could only giggle and guffaw in response until we had arrived at the door to our building when, instead of opening it, Victor pushed me against it and kissed me.

I returned the kiss even as the alarm was sounded in my brain that even in a discreet and understanding neighbourhood such as ours this behaviour was reckless. I think that perhaps Victor was openly courting danger that night, throwing his old self away and daring the storm to break over his head. He wriggled the fingers of one hand into my trousers and down to my backside, squeezing the flesh he found there and meeting my groan with a laugh, pushing his groin against mine until my knees buckled and I began to plead with him that he take me to his bed.

Which he did of course, but only after he had left a throbbing love bite on my neck, just below my right ear where I would be unable to hide it. He pulled me up the stairs, not slowing as I stumbled, and pushed me on to the bed with more force than I knew he possessed, winding me and leaving me quite dazed as he climbed onto the bed and straddled my hips. His kisses were fevered and harsh but I felt no desire to complain at such treatment for my skin had been set afire by his touch, his hands removing my clothing in a frenzy but his fingertips skimming over my flesh with reverence and care whilst all the while his mouth bruised mine.

I was naked in a matter of moments and he sat up to survey me, leaving my lips tingling and desperate without his upon them. He was still fully dressed, if rather disheveled, but when I raised my hands to the buttons of his waistcoat he snatched them up and pressed the most tender kisses to my fingers, knuckles and palms, whispering his love to me in every language he knew.

“J _e t’aime._  
 _I liebe di._  
 _Ti amo._  
 _Jag alskar dig._  
 _Te quiero..._  
I love you, Rosey. Always.”

His voice was close to cracking, desperate and soft, and I began to panic and wonder how to ground him, for that wretched day and all of Dali’s trail had sent him spinning off in every imaginable direction, a whirlwind of emotion which must have exhausted him. But before my anxiety could spur me to action he guided my hands back to his waistcoat, showing me what he needed, and I obliged, removing his garments with care, wanting to show him how deeply I valued all that he was, wanting to slow the frantic pace so that we could properly enjoy one another.

I can recall the sound of my palm sliding along his skin, from his hip to his chest, but cannot put words to it - the dry and yet soft slide of skin on skin. It made us both shiver and when I slid my hand down again, having removed his waistcoat and shirt, to begin unfastening the buttons of his trousers, Victor’s shivering increased and a moan was ripped from his lips that betrayed how deeply he needed all that I could give him.

I shuffled down between his legs, opening his trousers and pulling him free so that I could guide his erection into my mouth. His eyes squeezed shut and he pitched forward with a sound that was more a wail than a moan as my lips pressed and massaged the sensitive flesh in a manner that was so fiercely erotic it has been branded upon my mind for eternity. I do not believe he was expecting me to do something so forward so early on in the proceedings (I was usually the more passive participant after all) and so the sudden and intense pleasure of it caught him by surprise and I seized the opportunity to reduce his ability to worry about the future or think about anything beyond the sensations I was drawing forth from his electrified nerve endings.

He thrust into my mouth shallowly, his hips moving independently of his mind for several minutes before a sharper thrust caught me off guard and caused me to gag.

“Oh!” he cried, in both pleasure and shock, and his eyes flew open as he eased back and away from me.

I tried to follow him but he pressed a knee to my shoulder to tell me to stay down until he had removed the last of his clothes and settled himself up among the pillows. His eyes when I did rise to take in the sight of him were wide and clouded with lust and my manhood throbbed at the sight of him, reclined before me, ankles crossed and hands behind his head, dark hair tumbling about his shoulders. His body had matured in the years I had known him, his shoulders a little broader, his navel and abdomen smattered with more dark, wiry hair than it had once been, but the curve of his waist and hips was as pronounced as ever, a beautiful hourglass sweep that both confused and aroused.

He was still as thin as ever he was, though it was more due to lack of food now than a youth’s natural metabolism, and I leaned forward to brush my fingers down over the curves of his ribs, reveling in the way his skin prickled and shuddered at my touch. I replaced my fingers with my tongue as I licked and kissed my way down his chest, spurred on by his hands tangling in my hair. He allowed me to kiss the length of his chest and belly but stopped me from going further and, though I longed to return my mouth to his throbbing erection I did as he wished, knowing that I was his to command and control.

He pulled my head up and his lips on mine were slow and indulgent, kissing me until I had submitted entirely to him, my head hazy from drink and a lack of air, my body barely under my control but entirely under his. He pulled my body above his, his hands skating from my hair to my backside until I was straddling his hips and could feel the hot slide of his member against the crease of my buttocks and I whined into his mouth, knowing he was teasing me and torn between wanting such teasing to continue and the desperate desire to feel him within me once more.

One of his hands remained at my rear, massaging and squeezing the muscle while the other disappeared only to return a moment later with that most necessary bottle of olive oil, upending it over us so that the press of Victor’s erection became a delicious slide against my throbbing entrance. I became aware that I had closed my eyes so tightly that it was causing me to become light headed but could not bring myself to open them, could not deal with the added sensory information that sight would bring, for I was barely coping, overwhelmed with sensation as Victor’s teeth nipped against my lip before returning to my neck to suck a chain of love bites across my collar.

His hand, slick with oil, suddenly clasped my wrist and guided it toward my entrance, his oiled fingers running over mine until they too were coated before steering them onwards, urging me further until, by his will, I pushed one of my own fingers inside of myself. My back arched and my body shook with the intensity of the sensation, my digit sliding deep within me whilst his delicate fingers continued to rub and press at the puckered ring of muscle of my entrance. His other hand encircled my wrist and began to guide my finger in and out, setting a pace that was enough to set me on edge but not nearly enough to satisfy, and continued the movement until I had begun to pant and sweat, my perspiration falling to the pillow by Victor’s head with quiet, dull patters, like rain upon untreated wood.

His hands encouraged me to add not only a second finger but a third and my hips stuttered and canted forcefully as I was stretched and filled by my own digits while Victor’s tongue swiped over the bruises he had patterned my neck with, his breathing harsh and burning against my skin.

“Please?” I begged him and was answered with a deep and desperate kiss before he pulled my fingers free.

He directed me silently with his hands, first up and then down, moving slowly and carefully until I was fully seated upon him, my body stretched from within and more filled than it had ever been before. He shifted his hips and I cried out but he made no sound, pulling me down so that our chests were pressed flush to one another’s and he could resume his kisses. He raised his knees to support me and began to thrust upwards, sending sparks and shocks through my body and mind and soul.

The experience was so intense that pleasure and pain were blurred and merged together as my muscles strained and my blood pounded until I barely knew myself. And when orgasm came it brought with it black stars before my eyes whilst my body strained and was still and straight, my eyes forced open, even as Victor continued to thrust inside of me, his own release coming a minute later, filling me with a heavy warmth that in turn released me from the paralysis that had overtaken me.

I have but hazy memories of what came after, of Victor easing my body down on to the bed, of the feather light kisses down the skin of my back, of his fingers probing at my entrance out of fear that he had hurt me, of the gasp when his finger slipped so easily and accidentally within me, a gasp which may have come from either of us but which, to my exhausted consciousness, sounded muted and far off. I remember that he parted my buttocks with his hands and rubbed his fingers over my stretched entrance, mumbling that I was beautiful, that he was blessed in knowing such a man as me, that he could barely believe that our love and our time together had been real.

I pressed back against his fingers instinctively, despite my exhaustion, and moaned wantonly as he continued with his intimate massage, kissing my thighs and back as I hung on the edge of sleep. Eventually he pressed his fingers back into me, rubbing and stroking lovingly as he spoke in soft tones, his accent thickening and his words slurring with renewed arousal.

“May I?” he asked after a time, and I nodded my ascent, sighing happily as he pushed into me, thrusting slowly and lazily, both of us enjoying the closeness rather than rushing toward release.

My body could not summon the strength for a second orgasm but was still thoroughly and joyously overwhelmed by the feeling of Bauer moving within me, the rush of emotion replacing arousal until tears once again pricked at my eyes and my chest tightened. Victor’s own release was less violent the second time around but the warmth as he filled me was almost overwhelming and he sobbed against my neck as he recovered, sliding down to nestle against my side, both of us asleep within minutes though our bodies were still covered in sweat and oil and semen.

I remember putting my arm over his waist and drawing him tight against me, kissing his forehead, telling him that I loved him and hearing him say it in return.

And when I awoke the next morning, my head sore and my body stiff and aching... he was gone, and my heart with him.


	21. Chapter 21

My dear ------,

It is quiet here without your presence (I feel my age more bleakly when I am alone, I suppose) but I do hope that your visit home has been enjoyable. I have been concerned that the pages that you took with you might have been rather upsetting and that I ended rather abruptly, but perhaps that is simply because they have affected me so greatly. I know that you were reluctant to leave me on my own, though your trip to your parents was long overdue, and so I write first and foremost to reassure you that you have nothing to fear, for though I may be listless and increasingly trapped within these memories, I am not a danger to myself. You have nothing to fear there.

I have also spent the day in two minds as to whether I should continue the sorry tale that is my life. And whether, if I were to continue, I should do so now, in this letter, or once you have returned. I have thought upon it far too long and hard considering it is no more than a scribbled memoir to only one person and yet even as I sit here with paper before me and a pen in my hand, I am filled with indecision and anxiety.

So I shall write. I shall, though I do not know what state such writing will be in, relating those events. And if I should change my mind and keep the letter here for you to read upon your return, well, it is not here or there is it, I suppose?

~

And now, having resolved to write, I do not know quite how to proceed. I awoke to an empty bed and a home that somehow seemed stripped of its colour, and its life. He had taken very little. The wardrobe was still half full, the books still upon their shelves, paintings and sketches, brushes, inks, paints, charcoal, graphite, and paper - all where they had been the day before.

The only true thing of note that was missing was the book of poems that I had had bound for him those years ago at Nice, in which he had stored so many of the other pages of my words (words of love written to him and never viewed by any other person) until the book was stretched and the binding loose from the strain, held closed with a bootlace. And which was now gone. I took some comfort in the fact that of all his possessions it was my words that he had chosen to take, hoping that he would be able to read them and remember me, and know that, if he so desired it, there would be someone he could return to, someone who would continue to love him, without condition, whatever happened to him in life.

It is a thought that is perhaps more consoling now, for that morning it was a cold comfort indeed. When I awoke that morning all that I knew was that he had stolen himself away from me when he had promised to wait, that there was no guarantee that I would ever see him again, and that I had no assurance of his continued affection for me. Had he loved me? Did he love me? My mind asked questions that my heart could not answer until I felt ill with the anxiety of it all.

I dressed slowly when I eventually crawled from the bed, unwilling to rush from our apartment in search of him in case he had simply stepped out on a short errand. It had happened before after all, and so I made it my excuse, the reason for my reticence, even though I knew deep within my soul that such was not the case. The clothing I pulled on smelt of the cigarettes and spirits we had consumed the night before but I could not bring myself to care. I am certain that my skin smelt worse, but could not bare the thought of washing the scent of him from me when I knew it could never be recaptured.

Hours passed and my stomach began to cramp with hunger and so I retrieved my shoes from beneath the bed and shuffled from the apartment like a man still asleep, listing to the left as I descended the stairs and stumbling over the cobbles in the street as I walked without aim or destination. I wandered without seeing until eventually I came to the Place de Pigalle and the fountain there. I sat heavily, aware of the sharp cold of the stones edging upwards through my thighs and into my spine, but unable to move, even to make myself more comfortable. My body felt at once immaterial and crushingly heavy, as though I were tied by weights to the ocean floor, my body attempting to float but unable to do so.

I could not process what had happened, that he had finally done what I had feared, had finally left me behind, and so did not notice when a shadow fell across my person. I barely registered that my hands were being taken up and held carefully in a pair of small, delicate ones, and did not look up until Violette began to tug me to my feet, her expression one of deep concern yet not quite in focus before my eyes.

She asked me several times what was wrong but I gave her no answer, I could not. Eventually she succeeded in pulling me upright and then back to the apartment, her gentle hands directing me firmly back inside, though I began to feel nauseous as we approached the door that had once been a symbol of safety and security but now only seemed an image of solitude to my spiraling mind.

Violette ushered me inside and into the armchair and I could not fight her and simply watched as she walked about, taking note of the silence and the clothes that were missing. His fine, fitted suits remained and the beautiful kaftan that had so reminded us both of the sea was draped over the end of the bed as if it had been considered and then left behind at the last moment. He had taken only his most shapeless and unattractive clothing, it seemed, and my mind returned painfully, vividly, to the day I had first sat in that worn chair, with him at my feet and a coffee in my hand...

_~His smile deepened as he stared at me, his eyes back to twinkling, and roving over my barely covered form, slurping his coffee in a way that was intentionally noisy and insulting to the sensibilities but seemed to me to be delightfully endearing because he was trying to be infuriating._

_“After coffee,” I told him. “You’ll help me move my belongings?”_

_“And then introduce you to the Surrealists, perhaps? I shall wear my ugliest coat, just for you!”~_

I clenched my jaw against the tears that swept forward so suddenly and painfully but Violette was immediately back at my side as if aware of my pain, stroking my hair back from my face and speaking in a low, reassuring tone that penetrated the fog of my mind even if the words themselves did not.  
She continued for some time and I eventually became aware that she was repeating the same question to me and had been doing so for several minutes.

“Where is he, Rosey? Do you know? Rosey, where is he? Where did he go? Rosey,” she said with more force, “where is he?”

“Gone,” I told her, which was the truth and all that I could bring myself to say.

“And do you know where?” she prompted, but I only shook my head, it was all I could do, and after a time she fetched me a glass of water, watched as I drank it, and then settled herself down among the cushions on the floor.

I could not make myself speak, could not even look up from where my gaze was fixed upon the floor, for every inch of our apartment was a reminder of him, yet Violette stayed with me. I have no doubt that her mind was a mess of emotions much like my own and she too was silent as the day passed us by and the night drew in. We ate little more than a slice each of aging bread and neither one of us took the bed when it came time to retire. I barely closed my eyes through those long hours, so sure was I that the second I gave in to sleep he would return. But he did not.

The next day Violette convinced me to lie down, which was not a difficult argument to win considering how very fragile my mind was at that time. She pushed me down on to the sagging mattress and removed my shoes, which I had been wearing since the morning before, and threw as many blankets over me as she was able. I still did not wish to sleep but my body fought against me and once my eyes slid shut I could not seem to open them again.

And so I lay in the cocoon of colour, breathing in the scent of him, and of us, suddenly wishing that I could cry, yet the tears refused to come. I could hear Violette moving about in the kitchen and then eventually leave and it was only when I heard the door shut behind her that I gave in to my exhaustion and slept.

I have almost no memory of the days that followed. Violette returned, Jana with her, occasionally others, but I did not move from the bed except to relieve myself, and then only when the apartment was empty. It was not the first time in my life that I had taken to my bed but it was different that time. The pain and loss felt more real, indeed they were, and people trod carefully around me, as if he had died and we had actual cause for grieving.

I do not know how long I stayed wrapped in his blankets, in his bed, but my face was well on its way to being quite overtaken by my beard when Violette finally convinced me that there were things that needed to be done. I still did not wish to leave the apartment, for fear that he would return and discover it empty and have no way to find me again, but the reality of living alone, of paying even our tiny rent without his input, was beginning to loom and I did not know what I should do. I surveyed our small kingdom and the glorious clutter that had made it such a refuge to me over the years and felt panic rise in my chest. There was too much, too many things to go through, to make decisions about, and I simply could not. Half of the room was still dedicated to his art, easels set up, brushes at the ready, half a dozen pieces awaiting completion, others placed carefully against the walls and bookcases to dry, and I could not go near, for fear of... I do not know what.

Violette was gentle with me, allowing me to sit and take my time, as if I had not already wallowed for days and weeks, but reminded me eventually that my rent was due and that something needed to be done.

“There are options, Gui,” she said in a low murmur, her fingers rubbing a soothing pattern into the back of my wrist. “You simply have to decide whether you shall stay here or-”

“But I do not know where he has gone!” I replied in a wail, sounding more like a distraught child than a man in his forties, but she made no mention of it.

“I meant to say,” she continued in the same soft tone, “whether you shall stay here or find a smaller room to rent. Something needs to happen, Gui. You cannot continue in this stasis, as much as it pains me to be the one to force this upon you, something must happen or you shall fade away and then... who knows what will become of all of this.”

She gestured to his art and I flinched away, though I knew that she spoke the truth. He had left his creations in my keeping and it was up to me to ensure that they were properly cared for.

“I cannot sell them,” I told her, and she nodded, knowing that my feelings would run in that vein.

“Then we should store them somehow. But you still need money, Gui. I know that you and he survived on very little but now even that very little has turned to nothing and you shall soon have neither a roof over your head nor food in your belly. Please, Gui, something needs to be done. I can help you with the paintings, but all of your wonderful books-”

“Sell them,” I told her. “Mine first. How do we sell them?”

She could see the desperation in my demeanor, my unwillingness to move out of the apartment so soon, and there were tears upon her cheeks as she nodded her head and agreed to sell my books on my behalf. And she did so, handing over only enough of my possessions to pay for my next month’s living, but I knew that she would have preferred that I left, and parted ways with those rooms so heavily laden with memories.

Never once did she say a cross word to me, never did she point out that I was not the only person suffering in the wake of his departure, that she herself was hurting, having received no farewell or word from him at all, yet she remained strong. At least, she was strong in my company. Often when she came to my room with food - for I refused to leave to buy any for myself - her eyes were red rimmed.

Occasionally she brought me a paper to read but I could not stomach the great goings on of the world. I was only vaguely aware that Hitler had marched his army into Poland, that Italy was threatening France - that Europe was on the very brink of a war that would devastate her and destroy millions of lives - there was only one piece of news I was interested in, only one thing I wished to read. But that letter did not come.

I wrote a great deal in that time, once Violette had dragged me from my bed, but many of my poems I destroyed as quickly as I wrote them. What poems were left were filled with acid and bitterness at our uncaring world, sentiments that I had not the energy to express in any other way but in silent words on cheap paper. Every fortnight two men would come, men who worked the stage doors of a theatre he had once frequented, and they would remove a box or two of books to be sold on my behalf. They did so at Violette’s behest and were always polite and silent when they came to call, though they looked upon me with pity. One of them I recognised, after a fashion, as a man who I had encountered on a night long ago, when the rain had pounded down upon me violently as I searched for the one I loved the first time he disappeared. He had been cross with me that night, I believe, for hurting one so precious. Now he was torn between his pity for me and his devotion to the one who had broken not only my heart but many more besides, I’ve no doubt.

I had other visitors from time to time. Even Breton eventually came to call upon me, striding into my home as if he were its master only to pull up short to look about in confusion at a home that was obviously very different to what he had imagined for me. He took his time, gazing at the walls and their many paintings, at the half empty bookcases, the bare kitchen, the unmade bed, the jumble of clothes - skirts, capes and suits - that filled the wardrobe and had been left untouched in the months since He had left me.

“I heard you were... unwell,” he said eventually, by way of explanation, his eyes darting away from mine when I failed to answer him. “We have not seen you since Dali’s expulsion. It seems your condition is worse than we feared... Have you not heard word from...”

His wandering gaze fell to a small self portrait gathering dust by the window, two faces pressed so intimately to one another’s that they seemed as one, and his words died. There was a nervousness about his disposition, a strain that had not been there a year ago, and the hair at his temples was grey where it had once been dark, and I stared at him, trying to understand why he had come and why he was changed but unwilling to speak to him.

“What are you doing here?” Violette’s voice at the door was a whip crack and Breton jumped in alarm as she entered and shut the door harshly behind her. “Why have you come? To gloat? To see what you have caused?”

The anger radiated from her small frame like heat, distorting the air as she stalked forward and Breton took a step back, his face twisting in his confusion.

“What I caused?”

“Indeed,” she told him, putting her fists on her hips and staring him down. “You blackmailed them, made it impossible for them to live with any peace, threatened him with exposure, until he fled. You let the ghost of his father haunt him. He should have been free, finally, of that man, but because of you he was not. And now we shall never know what has become of him.”

Her voice cracked at the last and my eyes snapped shut against the pain. I heard her approach my chair, her fingers running through my unwashed hair and guiding my head until I was leant against her, my face against her waist, but I could not let her blame another for what had been my failing, the summary of all my failings.

“He would have left eventually,” I told her, though my voice was rough through lack of use, and I heard her stifle a sob as her emotions threatened to finally break forth.

It had been months by then, since he had left, and yet the wound of his disappearance was as raw as it had ever been, for both of us, and the tears fell, mine into the worn fabric of Violette’s coat, and her’s into the tangles of my unbridled hair, and when I was finally able to look up I saw Breton watching us, his expression distressed by such a display of emotion.

“Is it true then?” he asked eventually, his lip curling in distaste even as he fought to keep his voice neutral. “You really were lovers, you and he?”

And suddenly, for the first time in so many weeks, my mind felt truly alive, railing and desperate to scream that the word lovers barely covered what we were, that we were everything to one another, that he had been and still was my entire world, my existence, the star around which I orbited, the one and only person who I had ever wholly loved. But my body was weak and no words came. I looked up at Breton and gave him the barest nod, but he did not blanch the way I had assumed he would at the revelation.

“And... he disappeared?”

I nodded again and saw his expression waver, unreadable, his hands clenching and unclenching around his newspaper as his eyes moved once more about the room.

“What of it?” Violette asked, her voice slow and suspicious, and I looked up to see her eyes narrow like a cat’s as she watched him, her face frightening in its intensity even with cheeks blotched red and white from crying.

“I... am sorry. And I am fully aware of the uselessness of such a sentiment... and I cannot approve of what you do... of what you and he did. But I regret my course of action. I did not mean for things to go so far. I did not mean... to lose you as my friend.” His words were stilted but I felt that they were genuine, yet could summon nothing to say in reply, for I had no intention of forgiving him. “He may have had the right idea though,” he continued after a pause. “Leaving Paris. Hitler has taken Belgium, and The Netherlands have fallen. France is besieged and he has his eyes on Paris, or so it is widely believed. War is very much upon us. We... that is, a few of our mutual friends and I, are heading to Marseille until it all blows over. You could join us if it pleases you.”

I could see his discomfort and was struggling to understand his - if not kindness - then volte-face with regards to my person, but held my tongue when I felt Violette’s hand tighten its hold upon my hair.

“Do not think you can mollify him, Breton!” she spat. “You cannot pretend that your behaviour was some sort of favour when it was nothing short of shameful.”

“I am not speaking to you, woman! And my offer is to him alone and therefore his decision to make. Marseille is hardly Milan but perhaps... something could be arranged.”

“Milan?” I asked in confusion, and felt my skin prickle at the smile that crept on to Breton’s face, for it was not altogether friendly.

“Did I not mention before? Milan, even if it on the wrong side of what is moral, is at least safer than Paris, if he can keep out of trouble. Not that he seems to be. Have you not seen the paper?”

He thrust it into my hands, the news sheet folded to display a grainy photograph of the continued uprisings in Italy. There were many faces in the picture and most were unrecognisable but there was no way to miss the striking profile of the man at the centre of the shot, somehow holding his own in the sea of angry protesters, his face calm and serious as it had used to be when we were passing missives to various freedom fighters, his hair slicked back, his cheekbones so sharp they belied reality, and a nose that was both ridiculous and beloved.

It was he. My Victor. My Bauer. And I resolved to find him.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, we're back home again, after nearly a month in hospital, and I got a chance to sit down at my computer last night. I didn't think I'd be able to write much but this all came out quite quickly. I hope it flows well with the rest of the story. Thank you to my lovely readers, you lot have been so amazing and supportive. Thank you. xx

My first thought upon seeing that photograph was that I needed to make haste to find him, to pack my bags and journey with Breton to track Bauer down and... there my plans petered out, but that did not stop me from rising from my chair, feeling my body pulse with adrenaline at the thought of action, ready to leave that very day, until Violette tugged my arm downwards to inspect the photograph. 

Her manner was grave as she slowly read out the caption ‘Milan Resistance Movement keeps Italian Military out of France’. It was not a clear image but it was definitely him, my Victor, among the freedom fighters. His angular features were so sharp they appeared skull like in the grainy black and white of the photograph and Violette ran her finger down over the paper as if trying to point out to me some vital fact that I had missed.

“It is certainly Victor,” she murmured, her voice considering and cautious. “It is strange though, that you should have discovered it, is it not, Breton? I always had the distinct impression that you did not much care for our Bauer. When was this paper printed?”

“It was printed this very morning and I would say that it is none of your business whether Bauer and I were bosom brothers or bare acquaintances. We are fellow surrealists, artists,” he sneered. “One could not expect a whore to understand such things as that I suppose.”

In the whirl of my mind I barely registered Breton’s insult to my friend but felt Violette’s hand tighten on my wrist as she collected herself and faced her harasser.

“Gui is my business. Victor is my business. You have been absent through all of this and now you have ambitions to steal my Rosey away and you wave this paper in front of him like a temptation, but to me it seems a honey trap and I shall not tolerate it. So tell us now or leave - why are you here?”

It was a fine speech. Violette should have been, under different circumstances, a politician or great leader, for she could speak with more conviction and persuasion than any man I have ever seen preaching from a pulpit or podium, and her very stance and tone seemed to deflate Breton and wipe the sneer from his face so that when he answered it was with a greater degree of humility than I think I had ever heard from him.

“Why would you bring this to us?” Violette asked softly, and we both looked up at Breton as his eyes flickered about, fixing upon nothing, making me feel horribly uneasy. “Why would you think to make yourself the barer of such hope?”

“Because I wished to...” he looked at the floor and frowned, “to make amends? Word had it that Gui Rosey was pining, for his soul mate was gone. And when I saw the photograph... he is continuing his father’s work I suppose?”

He looked up hopefully but my face remained stonily impassive. There was something he was holding back from us and I did not trust him.

“No,” Violette shook her head and under her gaze of fire and barely contained rage Breton’s last vestiges of pride evaporated. 

“It came to my attention... that is to say...” he stuttered into silence for a moment before seeming to find the way to put his thoughts in proper order. “I happened to come across a man selling books, and several of those volumes contained the inscription G.R. in handwriting that I recognised as belonging to our Monsieur Rosey. I enquired after them and learned that you were selling your belongings. I spoke with the gentleman about... uncluttering my own bookcases... and he happened to mention that the gentleman who he had purchased the books from for resale was a prolific writer, and always seen with his pen in hand. I thought that perhaps... you could be persuaded to publish another anthology. Your work always did sell so very well, Gui. And even if Paris is battening down its hatches, Marseille may still be open to fresh poets and what we have to offer... They say it is safer there, with a steadier supply of food, to wait out this trifling war... and,” he looked up at us, his shoulders slumped and the lines on his face deep and long, the jowls that had once been so much a part of his caricature almost absent, replaced with skin that was loose and ill coloured. “I have debtors. It seems that it is not wise to stand against an ‘artist’ as popular as Dali. One quickly finds oneself blacklisted and without commission.”

And there it was, the whole truth, or close to it. A part of me pitied him for he was a proud man who had fallen far and misjudged his own importance in the world, but for the most part I was simply apathetic. I do not doubt that he had intended to lure me to Marseille under a pretense of contacting Victor, when in reality it was simply his only option. I was to be his money maker, and I do not doubt that any profit from my poetry would have gone to him and not I. I had always been fairly easy to manipulate I suppose, and without Violette I would have been led a merry dance once again. But now I had something more to live for, and I refused to let myself be used.

I straightened my spine, running my hands down over the creases and rumples of my shirt and trousers as though I could somehow make myself seem more presentable and sane. My height was a slight advantage at least and Breton took a few steps back as he realised that age had begun the ruthless task of shrinking him and that there were now at least two inches disparity in our heights when once there had been none. 

“You are no friend of mine, Breton,” I told him, my tone soft but certain. “And you shall not use me for your own ends any longer. Your conniving has cost me too much, not just now but in the past, every time you sent me dancing to your tune until I realised too late that I had once again damaged my relationship with the man I love.”

His lip curled at that, as if tasting something unpleasant, and I could see how difficult he found it to keep his face neutral when the very concept of what I was was abhorrent to him. He opened his mouth as if to speak but thought better and shut it again and I felt my confidence grow as I watched his dwindle. I have never been an overly confident man, have rarely spoken up for myself in any meaningful way, yet that day I felt liberated to take some measure of control over my destiny.

“For I do love him, Breton,” I said with conviction. “And I no longer care who knows it, you have no power over me, and I shall not be dragged along in your wake like some crank monkey, keeping you afloat. Not when I know for sure that Victor is alive, and know where he is. I shall not go with you to Marseille, I am s-”

I took a step back and shook my head, straightening my already stooping shoulders and, even though I could not see her, I felt sure that Violette was proud of me for catching myself before I fell back into my usual, submissive persona.

“I am not sorry,” I corrected myself. “I shall not accompany you to Marseille, not when Milan awaits.”

He seemed to stare at me for an inordinate amount of time but I refused to waver and eventually his eyes fell and he looked away. It was the barest of victories but I was proud none the less and watched as he began to shuffle toward the door, attempting to maintain some dignity rather than seeming like a dismissed child. At the last moment he paused and turned back to me, his brows drawn down and expression unreadable, something akin to concern yet unrecognisable, and when he spoke it was with a sincerity that I rarely saw in him.

“It may not be so easy as you think to track him down, Gui,” he said with unusual softness. “His father had enemies, and if he has taken his father’s place as a general in the resistance (as I believe he has) there will be those who may wish to track him down for less... romantic... reasons. They may follow you, use you. Otto’s apartment was being watched when he lived here, were you aware? And your own exploits were not so secret as you both seemed to believe. There could be people watching your door even as we speak, Gui. There is no way to know whether the enemies of Otto Bauer still view you as a threat. But he did have enemies, and those enemies will have transferred their hatred to Victor. And I know,” here he glanced at Violette and grimaced, “that I am not to be trusted, but you need to be aware of the danger, it is more real than you think. And I am sorry. I cannot pretend that what you and he were - are - is anything short of loathsome, but... you are a fine man and you were a fine friend, a true barer of the Surrealist mindset. I am sorry that he left, and in such a fashion, and that it affected you as if did. If there is anything I can do...”

And with a shrug of his shoulders he left, closing the door quietly behind himself, and leaving my mind in a state of confusion. I turned to Violette, whose eyes were narrowed and directed at the space Breton had so recently occupied, and I knew that she too was wondering just how much of the man’s words and sentiments could be trusted. My veins were still thrumming with the adrenaline that had been released upon seeing Victor’s face in the photograph but I could feel my body begin to shake. I was not used to such rushes of emotions any more, had grown stale and sedate when once my mind and body had been sharp and strong. I glanced down at the news sheet again and felt a rush of dizziness overwhelm me, and sat back in my chair with little grace, Violette settling herself down in my lap as I did so, her movements feather light while her face was heavy and troubled.

“He is right,” she murmured, taking the paper back in her hand to study the picture and the man in it. “As much as I hate him, Breton is right. If we attempt to seek Victor we may unwittingly lead his opponents to him.”  
I was stunned at her words. I could see the reasoning behind them yet could not comprehend how readily she seemed to have dismissed the need to search him out. 

“He is hardly in hiding,” I told her, placing my hand over hers and bringing the evidence toward our faces for closer inspection. “He is attending riots, is visible, is probably - as Breton pointed out - a general for the Italian resistance by now!” 

I all but spat the words, my anger was growing, an avalanche of emotion that I could not control, and I struggled not to direct my bitterness and rage at either Violette or, absent though he was, my Bauer. 

“But we must consider-” Violette attempted to argue but I would not allow it.

“We?” I asked. “Do not feel obliged to accompany me, Violette, if you think it a fools errand. You have been a great friend but you need to not go into any perceived danger with me. You are not my keeper.”

The look she gave me then shall be forever etched into my mind. It is a look that comes unbidden to my conscience whenever I say or do something melodramatic or foolish and it shall do so until the day I die. It was a look that was so serious and yet droll. Dry and sarcastic, holding anger and amusement in equal measure and seeming to ask how it was that I had lived so long with such little understanding or intelligence within my head. It is what might be referred to as an old fashioned look, and is difficult to describe in words, though easy enough to imitate. It was a look that seemed to ask, ‘I beg your pardon?’ without really expecting an intelligent answer. And it was a look that I thoroughly deserved. 

“Gui Rosey,” she said eventually, once her severe expression had begun to draw forth a blush from my cheeks. “For almost ten years I have been your keeper. And his. Do not attempt to find him on your own. You are both useless on your own. It is quite frankly a miracle that he has lived long enough to get his photo into the paper.”

I nodded at that, suitably cowed and together we began to plan the possible ways that we might make our way to Italy and our Bauer. 

An hour later we had rejected several half-formed schemes and a headache was forming behind my eyes from the seeming incredulity of the situation. A handful of years before it would have been such a simple matter to travel to Italy, lodge in Milan, and make enquiries after a friend. But now there was a war in progress and travel was fraught with peril that made my throat clench in fear even as my heart beat frantically in my breast in its desperation to set out immediately to find Victor. 

“He is still right,” Violette eventually sighed, then rolled her eyes at my questioning glance. “Breton. He is right. Even if Victor is not in hiding that does not mean that there will not be those who will follow you in the hopes or that you will lead them straight to him. They may follow you simply because of your connection with him, thinking you carry information. It will be dangerous.”

“Perhaps,” I countered, my voice rough from conversation. “But that does not change the fact that I must go to him. It simply means we must be careful.”

“And what if he does not want us to find him?” she said after another pause, and her voice was smaller, and more vulnerable, than I had ever heard it before. “The manner of his leaving - the secrecy of it - he was with me, us, the night before... he celebrated my birthday with us and never gave any true indication that it was to be the last time...”

I pulled her closer to me, holding her compact body against my large one, wishing that I could comfort and reassure her the way she had so often done for me and instead feeling only awkward and clumsy as I hugged her.

“We shall find him,” I told her as she settled against my chest, her delicate face pressed against me neck as her eyes fluttered closed in exhaustion. “And you shall tell him off soundly and I... shall probably cry,” I said with what humour I could muster, hearing her huff a breathy laugh against my collar in response. “And he will call us idiots for coming and himself the greater idiot for letting himself be found, but... he shall not regret us being there. He did not leave out of any lack of affection for either of us,” I whispered, feeling my throat tighten once more as the emotion of my own words overcame me. “I do not doubt his love, and neither should you. His mind was simply too fragile for all that was being pressed against it. He saw no other way.”

It was a relief to hear those words, even if they were from my own mouth, for I longed for it to be true, knew deep within myself that it was true, that Victor had not left from a lack of love, but perhaps from an overabundance of it, which had caused him to fear that his love would do us harm. He had fled in fear, and he needed to be reminded that he was loved and that our love for him, both as lovers and friends, would not be so easily forgotten or frightened away. How he had become embroiled in the work of the Italian Resistance again I did not know, but I was not wholly surprised. He would have needed somewhere to stay and had many contacts who would have been willing to take him in. I suddenly found it absurd that I had never thought to contact any of them myself, to search for him sooner.

I looked down at the photograph again and was suddenly struck by an intense realisation. I had thought that perhaps I could send a subtle, frivolous seeming letter to one of our old contacts in Milan, in the hope that it would find it’s mark. And if it did, Victor would be all the easier to find. He would be real once more, rather than a ghost, or a spectre locked within a grainy, black and white image. But who was I to send such a letter to? that had been my next question, until I stared down at the paper and realised that, though it was less than clear, the face next to Bauer’s was familiar. He was young man we had met with on several occasions, who had been full of fervor for his beloved country, and who’s details would no doubt be recorded somewhere on the papers that had come with us from Otto Bauer’s apartments after he died, and were still gathering dust beneath our bed. 

His name was Adriano, and I congratulated myself on remembering it, and while he had been little more than an errand boy for his own father when we first knew him, I did not doubt that his connections within the Resistance had only strengthened with time. If his presence in the photograph with Bauer was anything to go by this was certainly true and made him the perfect person to contact in my search for my beloved.

Thoughts tumbled through my head as I began to picture my adventure, my departure, how to combat any resistance or dangers I might meet upon the way. Violette would come with me of course, her presence could even provide a more legitimate excuse for our traveling abroad at such a time - a couple searching for missing family, my ‘wife’s brother’ perhaps, who had gone missing and was presumed to be in Italy, where his grandparents had lived. And if Breton truly wanted to be helpful I was sure I could find a way, as a diversion perhaps, so that when I did leave Paris my true destination would not be guessed at. Such a tale would be very useful, I mused, and no doubt Breton would be eager to help in such a way, for it would require little effort to simply put about town that I would be traveling with him and several others to Marseille, and then contrive for him and his companions to wear hats that obscured their faces on the day of their departure, to make it all the more difficult for onlookers to tell for sure whether I was one of their number or not. Breton would enjoy the drama of such a little scene, I mused and it would be a very easy way to avoid any further contact with the man, once I did depart, and that idea pleased me greatly. 

I felt the excitement build again, like water boiling and bubbling up within me, threatening to spill over, but when I began to speak of it I realised that Violette had fallen asleep, the emotional toll of the day having caught up with her, and so I held her tightly and carefully carried her to the bed where together we slept, my own eyes closing almost as soon as the pillow was under my head, and when we woke I described to her my plan and we took our first steps in setting it in motion. And for a time I felt something akin to happiness again.


	23. Chapter 23

And so it began again - the messages, the codes, the secrecy, the anxiety that so much was left to chance and left unknown - but this time with a very different motive. Plans began to form. I searched the suitcase of documents that Victor had taken from his father’s room on the day of his death and soon saw why he had done so. There were lists of informants, spies, people in key positions within Mussolini’s government. Letters, files and recorded rumours, enough to have made his father a wanted and dangerous man - more dangerous than I had ever guessed - all filled that battered and long forgotten case and I handled each document with a level of caution that was probably unnecessary but which I could not seem to stop.

I held each document as though it might explode at any moment, reliving those days on the road, those nights in camps, towns, our tent, praying that we would elude patrols of trigger happy soldiers, reading in Victor’s own words what dangers we had encountered and who had met with us, what information had been exchanged. His scrawl was slanted and tightly packed on the small sheets of paper and I gazed at the words greedily, running my fingers over them as if trying to absorb some tiny part of him, something new, something I had not already seen, and cursing the many reports written in his hand but in German, Bavarian and Italian - which I could not understand.

I was alone in the apartment, Violette having left me to go out to her work, and I was relieved to be left so, even though Violette’s presence had never caused me any unquiet, but because the memories of that time, intense and frightening as they had been, left me feeling vulnerable, which in turn left me rather embarrassed. Victor’s hold upon me was so very strong that even after so many months without him my love, my obsession, was unabated. If anything, it was stronger. I imagined that I could hear his voice as I read his words, could hear the stroke of his pen on the paper, the way he used to hold his pen incorrectly, flourishing it like a paintbrush and spotting the paper with ink as he went, flicking his wrist, mumbling and humming to himself as he did so.

My eyes prickled as I looked at the many pages in languages I did not recognise and could not read and I cursed myself (not for the first time) for never learning his native tongue, nor any Italian,as I stared at pages of words, Victor’s words, that were a mystery to me. They might have said anything and it caused a burning in my chest, to not know every thought that had passed his mind and made it on to paper.

I sorted deeper, grouping the documents into piles until the name I was searching for caught my attention and my heart began to beat with a frantic irregularity.

‘Adriano Venetianer Stablum’

And there was a scrawled address, not an official document, nothing that Otto would have considered important, in fact it seemed to have been Victor’s property which had been left with the other papers by accident for it was on a small, much folded piece of paper, and as well as the address there was a small note, addressed to Victor, with the appearance of something quite personal. I stared at it until my eyes began to water, trying to ascertain the meaning behind it, and why I had never known that the young man who we had only ever met briefly and irregularly had written to my Victor.

I was still staring at the note some time later, my brain filled to bursting with every possible, undesirable scenario it could concoct, when the door opened and Violette returned, Jana with her. I barely saw them, my eyes unfocused as I imagined Adriano writing secret letters to Victor, who gladly took them, read them and replied in kind. And what if letters had not been all that passed between them? What if there had been more? What if, in the midst of those most dangerous days, Victor had in fact been carrying out an affair with the younger man? A shiver ran down my spine at the thought and yet my traitorous mind informed me that such an idea was not so far fetched, for who could blame Victor for being beguiled by a younger, fitter, more attractive man when he had spent too many years with naught for company but a useless old husk such as myself. Suddenly I began to think that perhaps contacting Victor would be a mistake, that perhaps he had left me for more than the reasons I had supposed, and had failed to contact me because... because he had left me for another and was now happy in their presence.

It was with a great jolt then that I greeted Jana’s words, unaware that she had walked around to read the letter over my shoulder.

“Stablum?” she cried and I looked up to see the surprise on her face. “Adriano Stablum? Why then, Fate truly is a trickster, but not always a cruel one.”

I turned more fully to face her and she knelt down beside me, giving me a condoling smile before holding her hand out and gently taking the letter from my limp fingers. She skimmed the words quickly before glancing back up to me and then to Violette who had come to sit on her other side and offered her the newspaper with the photograph of Victor.

“Can you read that?” I asked her as she put down the letter in favour of the news sheet and she nodded quickly, her brows drawn down in concentration as she took in first Victor’s likeness and then the face of the man next to him.

“Of course I can,” she replied and it was a long moment before she looked back up at both myself and Violette. “Are you surprised that I can read?”

“No,” I stammered, “well, actually... yes.”

She let out a small laugh at that and took up more of the paperwork that was stacked around us, scanning pages with her deceptively sharp eyes and frowning occasionally at what she read.

“I was taught French, German, Italian, English, Dutch, Swiss, as well as Bavarian. Back before the fall of the nobility. You may need my help. It may be a safer thing to write to Victor in a language other than French. And if this is the Adriano I believe it is then I may be able to help you all the more. The Stablum’s were employed by my family for three generations. When our rights and honours were revoked they left our property and returned to their mother’s family in Italy. They had a son named Adriano, only a young boy at the time of course, but the man in this photograph... well,” she said with another smile twitching about her lips. “He looks a great deal like his father.”

Violette’s chuckle caught me off guard but she simply gave me the same smile as Jana had done and so I kept my silence and simply waited for Jana to finish reading the documents which had taken her interest.

Violette looked enviously as her friend read and I tried to imagine what it would be like to be so nearly illiterate, especially when intelligence burned so fiercely within her. Once Jana felt she had the information she needed she relayed it to us, that there was a safe house run by the Italian Resistance in Milan, that Adriano had passed on the address to Victor, that it was likely a centre of operations now that the situation had escalated with such ferocity.  
Together we drafted and penned the letter to the man whom all three of us loved, care of Adriano Stablum, giving as much information as we dared without giving his surname name or ours, or our whereabouts.

The letter was sent via an address that Jana located in one of the oldest reports and I was able to recall as a half-way town for refugees and nomads. And then we could only wait, and hope. I sold as many of my books as I could and carefully wrapped Bauer’s paintings and sketch books in newspapers and what butcher’s paper I could find. Everything was stacked in the basement, off of the ground in case dampness should strike, and as protected from time’s decay as I could make it.

Violette made her own preparations and, when I called upon their apartment one evening, I found her and Jana sitting at their small kitchen table, a book open in front of them, speaking to each other in stilted Italian. I was impressed and proud, a sentiment which more than doubled when Violette took up the book and began to read in Italian, her face radiant as she displayed her hard earned skill.

A month passed, during which I was more active than I had been in so long, but I was not only packing up my old life, I was making other preparations as well. I have never seen a copy of the book Breton made from the poems I gave him that year, I do not know if one still exists, but he was pleased enough to have my words in exchange for his assistance and silence. He gave me a small sum for it and I put that, along with all of my funds, in safe keeping for our anticipated journey.

By the time the letter reached us the invasion of Paris by the Nazi’s was a reality rather than a rumour, and the city had grown restless and fearful. Food was short, money shorter, and violence in the streets was not uncommon, especially against women in vulnerable and unprotected circumstances, such as my dearest friends.

The image of Jana, her cheek bruised and her lip swollen and bloody from a client who had not cared for the prices she charged, arguing against leaving with us when the time came, is like a scene from a film in my mind. It flickers slightly and does not seem real, and at the time I did not believe it, for why would she choose to stay behind when her closest companions were fleeing, and when I knew Victor was very dear to her. Yet she was adamant.

“My place is here,” she said firmly, causing Violette to throw up her hands in frustration.

“But there is no reason to stay. Who knows what will happen when the Nazis arrive.”

“There is every reason for me to stay,” Jana said with more care, her voice holding a lilt that reminded me always, so achingly, of Victor. “For what of the younger girls? I have survived one war, and much more besides, but they have no knowledge of such things. They have no money to flee and nowhere to go beyond the city. They must be protected and sheltered and I must do that for them, I must live for more than myself. You taught me that.”

Violette’s face was ashen and I could see the turmoil she was feeling etched upon her face.

“Then perhaps, I too should stay,” she said in a whisper and my heart plummeted at the words and the thought of venturing forth without her, but Jana would hear none of it.

“No. Your task is just as important as mine. You must find him, and when you do you shall write to me, to tell me that he is safe.”

She said this with sadness but also with great pride and I knew that both women had been working hard to improve Violette’s literacy and that Jana had found great pleasure, not just in teaching her friend, but in the act of teaching itself, and that Violette had been a willing and quick pupil. They were dear friends and when they embraced there was a desperation in the way their fingers clutched one another’s clothing, the way Jana’s forehead pressed against her smaller friend’s crown, the tight squeeze of Violette’s eyes against the threat of tears.

“I shall write to you,” Violette said eventually, her voice firm despite her wet cheeks. “And I will come back.”

“Of course,” Jana nodded, her control similarly tenuous. “Of course you will.”

And yet, it seemed that she knew, even then, what was to come, and her smile was bittersweet as she pressed a damp cloth to her injured face before joining Violette and myself on the bed to listen, once again, to the letter from Victor.

_To my dearest Brother Rosey, and to my two dear sisters,_   
_Imagine my surprise, if you will, when this morning I received a letter, that is to say, was handed a letter, from the young friend we have in common, with the assurance that it was from my family, who were concerned on my behalf. For I am afraid to say that the letter you sent, though lovingly sealed with our family crest (how clever of our second sister to have kept it all these years, for I must assume it was her doing) was opened by the Italian border authority and subsequently read by every hand it passed through on its way to me. It is good then is it not that you had nothing embarrassing or emotional to relate? I would have been most distressed if you had needed to send to me word of some great tragedy, or something deeply personal, only for it to be read by all and sundry. I am thankful, you might say, that the tone and contents of your letter were light and full of cheerful greetings._   
_All of that said, I could read easily your anxiety for my well being and I am very sorry that I have been so horrendously detained on what was supposed to be but a brief holiday. Know now that your fears may be put to rest, that I am alive and well and keeping busy, though trying my very hardest to stay out of trouble (and I am sure this has made at least my eldest sister, if not all of you, roll your eyes in disbelief). I feel I must stress that I did not mean to become so waylaid and were it not for the continued conflict in Turin I would most certainly have come home to you. As it is, the current fascist regime has forbidden traffic out of the city unless one is in the possession of the appropriate paperwork which I, as a mere tourist and artist of little importance, obviously do not have._   
_It was very kind of you to offer to come and collect me but I fear that if you came you would meet the same fate that I unwittingly have and will find yourselves trapped within the city without a hope of escape, and that is before one considers the dangers of the journey itself. The world is not what it once was. Even the most peaceful of the roads we once travelled together have become unsafe and I would not dream of putting any of you through such an ordeal. You especially brother, should consider the situation very seriously before making any plans to sally forth and play the hero on my account. For though I should dearly love to see you (I miss you very much, please do not doubt that, that I love you, and that I do miss you), I remember the strain that our last holiday put upon you. You are all older than I am after all, and I would not wish you to go through such great discomfort on my part._   
_I must say that in part I do regret my decision to take a holiday when I did, and so rashly too. But I suppose we artists are not so blessed with intelligence and forethought as we are burdened with whimsy and giddiness of temperament. It is certainly true for me and I can barely get my head around this whole situation that our beautiful land has found itself in. Thankfully I have found a safe place to stay until all of this passes and am, I do promise you, keeping out of trouble by helping my host family in their small shop. I have been sketching when I have the time and, though there is little of beauty to behold in this time and place I have done my best with what I have and so have included with this letter several of my better attempts at the local landmarks. I do hope you find them heartening and know that I will see you soon, for how long can such a conflict go on for before it runs itself out?_   
_I fear I must end my correspondence here, else I shall have used up far too much paper, and we do not have much to waste on such frivolous words as mine. But I must finish by sending you all my love, my very heartfelt, sincere love. I had not thought that my Family would take such pains to find me and assure themselves of my safety, and I am sorry for the many failings on my part which precipitated my leaving. My sisters, I hope you are well, and safe, in this trying time and ask that you might ensure that our brother continues to do those simple things which he so often forgets, such as eating and sleeping and changing his socks. And to my brother, my dearest brother, I have been reminiscing greatly upon our time at Nice, when we were so young and carefree. Do you recall it as I do? Such vivid colours, such warmth, such peace. Are we still crabs, do you think? Silly creatures that we are, walking sideways through the world? Are we still as those two crabs are? I very much hope so._   
_I do pray I shall see you again, though I do not know when that might be._   
_Yours in love,_   
_always,_   
_Victor._

He had obviously taken pains to keep the letter light in temper, and to make himself appear as no more than a stranded tourist, and artist of little importance or intelligence, but his desires and emotions were clear to we who read it. Fear clenched about my heart when I saw that the censors had read the letter and inked over the name of some conflict and what must have been the word ‘fascist’ in relation to the regime, and at first I worried that Victor might have gotten himself into some trouble over those remarks until I realised that he had most likely written in that seemingly flippant manner so as to seem unguarded.

I still have the letter, and so was able to transcribe it here for you, though it was a difficult task, and not only because the ink is now faded and Victor’s handwriting was, as always, a series of blots and flourishes and abstract shapes that he insisted were letters yet looked nothing of the sort. Mostly it was a difficult task because to look upon his writing always seems akin to hearing him speak. I could have saved myself the pain, I know, by simply giving you the general idea of what the letter contained, and so the fault is mine (as it so often is) for taking the letter from it’s hiding place and gazing upon it again, but I simply could not help myself, and I wished you to see how easily he crafted such things, making a letter and his own self appear harmless and of little importance, when in truth he was ‘keeping busy’ organising rebellion and revolution in any way he could.

I have not looked upon that letter for many years, but on the day of its arrival I struggled to take my eyes from it, even Violette took it gently from my fingers so that she could read it for herself, whispering the words as she went, I stared. Jana sat quietly in thought, twisting the signet ring upon her finger, the ring which we had used to seal the letter, not looking at either of us or the letter though she was clearly concerned. Victor had picked up on our own subtleties, the use of the seal, the use of sibling titles, our desire to see him safely home. And now it was our task to read his. He had included several sketches with the letter, of a shop front, a harbor, a fountain, a clock tower. They had titles scribbled in the corners and seemed, at a glance, to be only pretty scenes that he thought we might enjoy, and yet... to me they seemed as directions, and I made up my mind, there and then that I would go to him, despite his warnings.

For he had called to my mind the crabs which he had so lovingly and playfully transformed into telephones, and I convinced myself that his purpose in doing so was in the hope that I still felt our connection, still felt joined to him. Still hoped to one day die by his side. And I did.

And by the week’s end we were on the road, Italy and Milan in our sights and Paris at our backs.


	24. Chapter 24

We left for Italy on May tenth, 1940, a date etched into the memories of all French citizens who lived through that horrifying time, not because it was the day that a small party of artists and poets snuck quietly from the city, but because it marked the starting date of the Battle of France. Planes flew overhead and our train was the last to make it out of the city before all civilian rail travel was shut down for good and the sound of artillery could be heard across the plains though, to many of us who lived through it, the battle had started weeks before, with the air raids, advancing soldiers, mysterious disappearances and general air of fear that hung overhead like the poison gas we all feared would be used against us. Within days the land was barraged with such force that it would have been near to impossible for any spy to follow our trail but we still did our utmost to move with stealth.  

We left with Breton and Perez and a handful of others, Violette dressed in one of Victor’s suits, her hair braided and hidden under a hat to give the illusion of a man to anyone who cared to glance in our direction, and we moved with as much confidence as we could muster, whilst all the while our nerves were raw. Jana accompanied us to the station, her arm linked with Violette’s and her eyes red rimmed. There was a large part of her which truly wished to come with us, of that I am sure, but she had made her decision and was adamant that there was greater need for her in the city than with us in Italy. 

The platform was frantic with people attempting to board and farewelling loved ones. There was no real romance or drama to the scene, merely grime, smoke, and forced proximity. My toes were numb from their many encounters with the heels of other mens boots and I held my small suitcase tightly as we were jostled about. Couples were farewelling, soldiers were being packed off to the front lines, parents were sobbingly farewelling their children, and in the turmoil of the moment I found my self separated from my own companions, Breton and his lackeys striding ahead but Violette nowhere in sight. 

I turned to look back the way I had come and almost missed her. My heart did not skip a beat, or stumble, it simply stopped, shocked into silence by what I saw. For there she was, locked in a passionate (and heartbreaking) embrace with Jana. Both were in tears, hands fluttering about faces and waists as if afraid to touch in case the other disappeared, their lips pressed near painfully to one another’s. 

I felt as though the breath had been knocked from me and was filled with a surge of panic for their safety until I realised that, dressed as she was, Violette made quite a passable man and that to those who passed by they seemed just like any other couple bidding farewell at the station and I watched as they parted only enough to draw in ragged breaths, their noses touching as they whispered their final, private and desperate goodbyes. It was an intoxicating moment, and one which I wished to continue to gaze at, for it was brimming with emotion and with things unsaid and said too late, but I pulled my eyes away, to give them their privacy, and looked ahead instead, to where Breton was standing in the doorway to our carriage, scanning to crowd for us.

He gave me a look of annoyance when he did see me, gesturing with his head that we needed to find our seats and store our belongings before the train left without us and all our planning was for naught, and I nodded to him but did not move until I felt Violette’s hand at my elbow and knew that she was ready to leave. Jana hugged me gently and kissed my cheek in farewell and whispered in my ear in a stuttering, broken voice, her accent thicker and more lilting that usual.

“Keep her safe, Gui. I beg you. Do not lose her when I have only just found her.”

“Of course,” I replied. “I promise.” 

She left without another word, just a look back at Violette, her dark eyes overflowing with emotion - looking to me like the very image of a widow leaving a graveside - before she was swept away by the flow of people and Violette and I climbed aboard the train in silence, she alone in her anguish and I in a strange tumult of confusion and grief. We were silent for over two hours, though her hand crept into mine at some point, and I let the silence hold until the train stopped at Lyon, the questions building and queueing in my mind for a time when we might be alone enough to speak openly. 

Breton and Perez were far from silent, though they did not include either Violette or myself in their conversation. Breton had been keen enough to aid us, suffering from genuine guilt at the trouble he had wrought but Perez and the others who travelled with them could not understand why we had been invited when I had long since ceased my involvement with the Surrealist movement. The remark that was directed at me was to the affect that my latest volume of poems was rather sentimental and sincere, a fitting collection for women but not for men of learning and intelligence, yet I could not reply, my anxiety had gotten the better of me and rendered me speechless. Instead I turned my face to the window, to look out at the land, which already showed signs of the terror being wrought against it.

I pondered it deeply during those three hours over how I had once been so desperate to meet the Surrealists, to gain their attention, friendship and, possibly, hopefully, their acclaim. I had been so very keen to meet them, to be one of them, it had been my goal only ten years earlier, and yet now every topic they chose to debate, and every opinion they voiced, grated upon me, like a cane dragged across dry cobble stones. All we seemed to share as common ground was a hatred of Hitler, and that seemed very little, for hatred of a monster was surely a given, yet they fancied themselves great thinkers for pointing out that Hitler’s methods were base and criminal. They painted Mussolini as a commedia clown and his regime as ineffectual, a joke, yet I knew too well that they were a threat, and the regime a cruel one. I could have argued, possibly should have, but could not summon the energy for such an undertaking and did not trust myself not to reveal one of mine and Victor’s many secrets, for how could I argue that the Italian army were a real and present threat without giving the proof of my own eyes? So instead I stayed silent, and mulled over the multitude of faulty decisions that had littered my life, and the many misplaced loyalties and infatuations which had sullied my life, both my art and my love. 

At Lyon, Violette and I made the excuse of exiting the carriage to draw breath and stretch our legs and Breton played along, saying we had better take our luggage (minimal as it was) with us in case we should find ourselves separated from the group and unable to get back to our seats. 

“Thank you,” I told him, though my thanks were not for that innocuous suggestion but for the help he had leant us, and his repentance, tempered though it was with his distaste for what he considered my ‘sexual perversion’

“Quite,” he replied. “Enjoy the... air.”

And with that we parted, rather undramatically I suppose. Violette and I stepped from the train whilst it rested at the platform, though our tickets were marked for Marseille rather than Lyon, and strode swiftly away from the station. Violette knew something of the city, having spent the last years of the First War there, and we made our way down to a guest house in one of the outer suburbs, speaking of only the most inconsequential things, like how the various neighbourhoods had changed. We passed a Home for Girls and Violette stopped to stare at the building, eventually murmuring that she was surprised at its existence, for it had burnt down some twenty years ago and many had argued against its being rebuilt. Her expression was strange as she stood in the street, her coat still a little large on her despite her alterations, making her seem too young to have such vivid memories of the last war. 

After a significant pause I saw her take breath before pulling her cap lower over her face and walking on. She did not speak again until we reached our destination, and there only to find us a room. She ducked into an alleyway, pulling me in after her before dropping to her knees and opening her suitcase. She hurriedly threw off her cap, pulled out a long skirt which she pulled on over her trousers, then swapped her man’s coat for her regular, woolen jacket, transforming herself in less than a minute from a young man to a woman of middle years. We had agreed before leaving Paris that she should not be seen for too long in any one disguise, to maintain our anonymity as we travelled, but it had not struck me that she would change in such a fashion, or be so adept at it. She was, as ever, a marvel, and strode out of that alleyway a completely different person, whilst I trailed behind her, wondering whether I too should have put more thought into my own disguise, other than changing my hat and jacket every second day.

The woman who ran the guest house, which was a rather ramshackle affair and seemed to also house at least a dozen children, assumed that Violette and I were husband and wife and Violette let her believe it, reciting to her one of our collection of stories to explain our actions, that we were fleeing Paris to return to my family, who apparently lived in the alpine city of Chambery. The woman gladly took our money and showed us to a small room which held little more than a single, small bed and a strong smell of damp. 

I stared at the bed, smaller than that which we usually shared, but Violette gave it barely a glance before stowing her suitcase under it and and pacing the cramped space as she talked us through the next phase of our journey.

“We must find a cart, or coach, though a farmer’s cart is best, someone on their way home with their business in Lyon done. The place for that is probably Bron, it is not far from here and there are large markets there. We should go directly to make our enquiries. I would not wish to stay here longer than necessary.”

“Violette,” I interrupted softly. “We have been through this several times, I know what must happen now, as well as you. You have kept me calm thus far, let me do the same for you.”

I opened my arms to her and she walked into them swiftly, bumping her head against my chest in her haste, wrapping her arms about me tightly and bringing a smile to my lips. We took a moment to calm ourselves before venturing back out into the city, in the direction of Bron and possible transportation toward Chambery. 

It was well into the afternoon when we found ourselves at a large market square in the hamlet of Bron, a community within the larger city of Lyon, and the perfect place to seek passage with a farmer or trader. In earlier years, when Victor and I had travelled, we had occasionally made use of tradespeople traveling the roads, offering to lift and carry if needed, and money when it was deemed necessary, but Violette secured us a place in an empty horse drawn cart with little more than her plump lips, wide eyes and sad tale of dying parents and no money for she and her brother to return home to them. The man was a cheese maker who could take us as far as Heyrieux but where, he guarantied us, his brother-in-law could get us as far as Villefontaine.

“Thank you, Monsieur,” Violette gushed at him, and the man, old in years and soft in heart, patter her hand affectionately. “You are an angel.”

“It as a pleasure, child,” he told her with a smile. “I only hope that one day my own children will do so much for me when my time comes. I leave with the sunrise tomorrow. Meet me here, there’s a good girl.”

“Bless you, Monsieur,” Violette said to him, and he smiled all the wider. “We shall be here, as early as may be.”

I shook his hand before we departed but stayed silent, not wishing to ruin the magic that Violette had woven with my clumsy, and not so charming, words, and we departed with another promise from Violette that we would meet our conveyor the next morning. We walked swiftly back through the city to our lodgings, moving too quickly to be able to speak easily, and so it was not until we had returned to our room, seated together upon the bed with a meal of hard bread and soup provided by our host, that my mind returned to my thoughts of Jana, and how she might be feeling in the wake of our going.

Violette was eating in silence her shoulders slumped and her eyes downcast, as if focusing inward and eventually my curiosity got the better of me. 

“You are missing her?” I stated, gulping the last of my meal as I waited for her to process my words.

“Hmm?” she looked up slowly. “Missing who?”

“Jana,” I said gently and she blushed and drank her own soup to give herself a shield from my words, yet I continued. “How long have you felt that way? About her?”

She looked up and her eyes were filled heavily with tears and I took her empty bowl from her unresisting hands, placing it and my own on the floor beside us so that I could take her hand.

“Years, I think. You are not... offended by it, I trust?”

I gave her my approximation of the looks she so often gave me, for surely such a question did not need to be asked but she seemed so very vulnerable and I realised that she truly did need my reassurance. 

“I would be a strange creature indeed if I did not,” I told her, and she gave me a brief smile before nodding and turning so that she sat beside me.

“I thought as much,” she said, “yet still felt I should... I am not sure. It is new to me. This love. It is rather overwhelming.”

“And so, you and she... you...” I began to ask hesitantly but Violette saved me from myself and my ever blundering mind. 

“Gui, do try to keep your curiosity to yourself lest you find yourself with answers you did not wish for. Or worse, the same questions put to you about your own relationship.”

I nodded, appropriately chastised, for she was right of course, and I did not need to know more about the physical side to their relationship other than they loved one another and shared that love in ways that pleased them both, and that Violette was asking me to respect her desire for privacy and discretion. Yet I could not help the chuckle that escaped my throat as I thought over the rest of her words.

“As if Bauer has not told you every detail of our relations already, whether you wished to know or not.” 

She laughed at that and shrugged she shoulder, giving me a long, considering, but humour filled look.

“He needed to tell someone, did he not? He was so excited after that first night, and the day after it as well. Discovering that one has a true soul mate is not so common an occurrence you know, and he felt very passionately about you, even after so short an acquaintance. He could not keep it to himself. Besides, he considered me to be the one who brought you to him, he wanted to thank me.”

“You did bring us together. Thank you for that,” I told her, “but was that the only time he revealed to you what we got up to in our bed?”

“No,” she admitted. “Far from it. But he gave the information willingly, I never asked or forced it from him. He was just often so... excited, that he was with you. That there was such trust between you. That he could be so intimate. With anyone.” 

I stared at the floor, hit by a sudden sadness that I did not wish to feel yet could not pull back from, for the trust had not been one-sided, I had trusted him with my everything - my body, my mind, my heart, my safety. And I was quite pleased that someone else knew of our relationship for I have always hated the thought of it disappearing, forgotten with our deaths, like a dirty secret when it should have been celebrated as much as any love in this world.

I took a steadying breath, but exhaled so shakily that Violette moved around the bed to draw me in to her arms, and I in turn held her, sharing the comfort that we both needed, alone together.

“We will find him,” she crooned, her nose pressed to my shoulder and her hands firmly clutching my shirt.

“We will,” I agreed. “And we shall deliver you back to your Jana as well.”

I felt her smile against me and after a time she heaved a great sigh and climbed to the head of the bed, making herself comfortable and tugging the blankets out from beneath me. 

“But first we must rest. The cart will leave at dawn, whether we are there or not, so we had best be there, don’t you think?”

I nodded and shook the bed covers out, though Violette protested that I had made her cold, before lying beside her. We both turned so that our backs were pressed together and I felt her wriggle against me, a contented hum leaving her lips before she drifted into sleep. I followed quickly after, the day’s anxiety catching up with me and the comfort of my bed companion lulling me into oblivion. The next day held its own worries and stresses, but for one night at least we could both sleep easy, knowing that we had each others backs, quite literally in that moment, and that our adventure was well and truly under way.


	25. Chapter 25

Our progress west across the country was slow - frustratingly, mind-numbingly so - and I felt locked inside my own mind and completely alone, for whilst Violette enjoyed viewing landscapes she had never encountered before and chatting with the various farmers who agreed to help us on our journey, my thoughts were a mad jumble of fears and memories. Even as we moved away from the worst of the fighting the sounds of bombs and aeroplane engines drifted to us on the breeze, causing my body to break out in cold sweats, and images and sensations to flitter through my mind. I seemed never to be free of them, vivid and intrusive as they were, and I struggled to keep myself in check, though once of twice I know that Violette was woken by my bad dreams, though she never confronted me about them. One moment I would be running through the rocks and trees with the sound of gunfire at my heels, focusing on Bauer’s back as he ran ahead of me; the next moment being lifted from my feet and thrown across a compound as the cannon I had loaded for the first time exploded in a ball of fire and twisted metal, shattering my shoulder and bursting my eardrums; and then suddenly I would be back on the bus, a gun to my chest as Victor was pulled away from me and out into the road, forced to listen to the thuds and cries as he was beaten by the soldiers, for little other reason than that they could, and then I would see again his face, blood stained, dirty, and full of shadows when he was released and sent back to his seat beside me on the bus. And so there was no rest for me, only frustration that the journey was so long, and a deep, stomach turning foreboding.

The further we went, the more difficult we found it to acquire transportation, even with the offer of money, but it was easy to understand the reticence of the village folk to trust strangers, or to even wish to venture forth from their homes. For even though there was less conflict in this part of the country (the reason why we had chosen it as our best chance at a crossing), rumours abounded of spies, assassins and small yet vicious regiments, creeping across the land under cover of darkness and taking what they wanted from the land, be it food or lives. Foreigners were not to be trusted and, to those people, even a Parisian accent was alien enough to be viewed with suspicion. 

As we began to ascend into the mountains we could see, laid out before us, the damage wrought upon our country - the fires, the battle fields, the craters, the camps, military and refugee alike - scars and wounds upon the land. It was unsurprising that the people were frightened, and so, as the month of May ended, Violette and I made the decision to continue our journey on foot. We agreed that we would take any ride offered to us but would not waste time or resources in seeking one out. In Chambery we bought as many supplies as we could afford and Violette donned her men’s trousers, boots and coat, selling her skirts for a small sum and explaining that she would have no need of them in the mountains and that, if skirts were required in the future, well, she was sure that such things were available for purchase in Italy and beside, she told me with a grin, she had grown fond of trousers and walking through the world as a man. She donned her cap, and I mine, and we said goodbye to the land which had been the only one either of us had ever known, hoping that our map would be enough to guide us to where we needed to go.

Needless to say, neither of us fared particularly well on that leg of our journey, though we both made a point of not complaining about the blisters which covered our feet and how cold the nights were as the altitude increased, even though it was now June. We did not hear word of the fall of France to Germany, nor Hitler’s tour (which is to say, invasion) of Paris until well after it occurred, when we finally arrived in the town of Susa, emerging from the mountains stumbling and blinking and barely comprehending that we had made it, finally, to Italy. We had been over a month in the alps and it had been a merciless journey. Despite my desire to move as swiftly as possible, my own body was simply not up to such a challenge and often we were forced to stop when the sun was still high in the sky to make camp as my back spasmed and my knees throbbed. Violette too suffered from exhaustion, and I knew when she was nearing the end of her reserves when her lips became thin and she could not bring herself to speak or even look up at the beauty that surrounded us.

For it was beautiful. As city dwellers we were both struck by the wildness of the mountains, and the sheer scale of them as well. For nothing truly prepares one for the alps, no books or maps or descriptions, they must be experienced. But as the days wore on, even their splendor began to fade and the journey was a weary trudge, both of us wishing to stop, to give up, but continuing for the sake of the other, and if I had not had Violette with me I know that I should not have succeeded in such a journey. 

I wondered aloud one night how Victor had made such a trek, alone and afraid and with possibly fewer provisions than we had at our disposal, not to mention the fact that he had taken few warm clothes and no blankets with him in his hasty retreat. Violette had shrugged and suggested that Austrians were a strange breed, but it still worried me. For Victor was strange, he refused to sleep in a nightshirt and always complained that I generated too much heat as I slept and forced him to forgo even a blanket at night because he grew too hot, yet when he ventured forth from our home in the winter he always seemed to require a thick coat, gloves, and scarf, and even then he would complain to me that he was freezing. I worried that he would have found such a trip to have been most uncomfortable, and he had made it in early winter too. Violette had been right when she said it was a miracle that he had lived long enough for his picture to end up in the papers, and when we eventually found him I had every intention of asking him how he had done it.

“Of course,” Violette’s voice cut through my musings, her body huddled against mine for warmth in our cramped tent. “He made such a journey before, did he not?”

“What?” I asked in confusion, trying to recall a time when Victor might have travelled in such a fashion. “When?”

“When he first came to Paris, of course,” she replied. “His mother gave him funds to reach Switzerland but no further. He must have reached France somehow and if he had no money to spend on a train or coach... he must have walked.”

We lay in silence after that, thinking what it must have been like for the then eighteen-year-old Victor, to make the journey through the alps and down to Paris. He had never really spoken of it and I felt a rush of guilt that I had not thought to ask him more about his journey to France, though I am sure that he welcomed my silence on the subject. It had been a traumatic time for him and if asked he probably would have skated around the topic and distracted me with some fable or fabrication. But I could not stop my mind from wondering about it, imaging what he must have felt and thought as he made the journey, walking the mountain trails as we did now, except that he had been fleeing while we were seeking.

As concerned as I was, I could not think long on it that night, my body’s exhaustion forced me to sleep, but the image of Victor, young and alone and exiled, returned regularly to my mind as we travelled, at those times when Violette was too exhausted, distressed or distracted with her own thoughts, for conversation. On the good days - the better days - we spoke a great deal. Violette passed on to me the Italian which Jana had taught her and we practiced simple conversations and phrases, how to explain why we were abroad, who we were seeking, and that we were not a threat. By the time we reached Susa I was confident enough to enquire after a room at a small hotel but the landlord looked me up and down disdainfully and told me that there were no rooms to be had for a pair of wildmen, but that we were welcome to use the stable, as long as we did not attempt to steal the goats. I almost laughed until I realised that, after so many weeks without bathing, and no mirrors to show us what we looked like, we must truly have seemed wild. We had been so used to each other’s faces that neither of us had noticed the build up of grime and dust and sunburn but when I turned to look at Violette I began to see that her skin had darkened while her cheeks had hollowed, and that her trousers and coat were stained and ingrained with dust.

I thanked the landlord gratefully then, and we retired to the stable, which was warm and dry and smelt no worse than we did. Our intention was to spend the next day resting and learning the safest route to Milan, and made the decision to wash before going to sleep, stripping down to scrub our bodies and then our clothes at the water barrel by the door before climbing under the clean blankets which the barn’s owner had delivered to us after, perhaps, taking pity upon us. We both hoped for a more comfortable night’s sleep than we had enjoyed for a long while, but it was not to be, for fate is rarely kind.

~

I awoke to a strange noise, blinking in the dark and wondering why my body had woken when it was not even close to dawn, until the noise came again. It was like a squeak, yet muffled, too loud to be a mouse, too soft to be anything but suspicious. And then I heard the scrap of a boot against the ground, a rustle of straw and blankets, and began to make out the shape of the man, his form large and unclear, yet the outline of his arm, held against Violette’s throat, visible enough to send my mind into a panic and adrenaline racing through my veins. 

I saw the moment when Violette awoke from sleep and began to struggle in earnest, realising what was being done to her and fighting against her attacker, her knee coming up between his legs with a viciousness which made me quite proud but, though the man swore and loosened his grip for a moment, it was not enough for her to escape and he renewed his assault against her with greater force and pulled something from his belt which glinted dully in the low light, yet even in the dark I could make out enough to realise that whoever this man was, he was armed.

Violette’s struggles ceased entirely when the weapon was brought up to rest against her cheek, her body becoming still and taut, and I heard the laughter of her attacker, callous and uncaring and, it occurred to me, unaware of my presence. We had fallen asleep side by side but must have moved apart in the night and so I was by that time, at least a metre or two away, and I moved as silently as I was able as he laughed louder and pressed himself down upon Violette, creeping around some stacked crates until I was almost behind them, but did not know what to do once I was there. There was a metal shovel nearby and I picked it up but still I hesitated. Even as I heard Violette’s frantic whimpers I had not the nerve to face the man, and then he began to speak, and it took all of my concentration to understand his words.

“Come, come now,” he said in a harsh whisper. “There is no point in this struggling. We know you are a spy. But if you tell me who you are working for, what messages you carry and for whom, I may just spare your life. Or maybe the life of your companion. Where is he? Come now, little one, tell me and save your pretty face. Speak!”

But rather than reply Violette had begun to struggle again and I peered around in time to see her pull her hands free and begin to push the villain away. I also saw his knife come down against her exposed skin with terrifying ferocity and it was then, finally, that I acted, swinging the shovel with as much force as I dared as I ran forward in the dark, hoping that my weapon would find its mark. And it did, with more force than anticipated, and the tremors that ran up through my arms at the impact hurt far more than I ever thought they would, and the thud of his body hitting the ground was louder than I expected, and in the stillness that followed I realised that the blow had held a finality to it, that I had ended the life of another human being.

Violette limped over and fell against me, her body trembling and her breath coming out in shallow sobs, and it took a moment for me to realise that I needed to help her, comfort her, direct her, for she was in shock and had been through a terrifying ordeal. My own terror at what had happened would have to wait for I could not fail her again, not when so much of the attack might have been avoided if I were a less cowardly man. I held her to my chest and stroked her hair until I felt her calm slightly then carried her to where our clothes were hung across a low beam to dry, placing her down upon my suitcase where she sat like a small child upon a stoop waiting out their punishment of isolation. I spoke to her softly as I dressed her, telling her when she needed to move her arms or legs, that she would be alright, that we were both alright now, that it was over, yet still she shook. It wasn’t until I was pulling her arms through her shirtsleeves that she gasped and I discovered the long, deep cut along her right arm. It was bleeding freely and her arm and hand were warm and slick with blood and I cursed myself a fool for not realising that she had been injured. I left the shirt undone, and placed her coat over her shoulders before struggling into my own, still damp clothes as quickly as I was able. I took up her arm gently when I was done, trying to examine the damage, but her sleeve was already soaked and stuck to her skin and she flinched away from my movements, her body still trembling and her jaw clenched shut against the pain. 

The sensible thing to do then, I suppose, might have been to sound the alarm, to seek out the aid of the landlord, or even to wait until morning before deciding on a course of action, but that is not what I did. For when I went to look over the body of the man I had, however unintentionally, killed (I still feel sick to even write that I did so, that I ended the life of another human being, whatever his affiliations or intentions toward us) I saw that he wore on his arm a band with the letters OVRA, the initials for the Organisation for Vigilance and Repression of Anti-Fascism, more commonly thought of as the less-than-secret branch of the secret police. Half of his head was a mess of blood and skull and things which bring bile to my throat even to remember, but his face would still be identifiable to those who found him, frozen in an expression of anger and surprise. We could not wait until morning, there would be no way to defend ourselves and no chance that the local authorities would take our side over his. We were foreigners, strangers, and so I dragged his body over the corner of the barn furthest from the sleeping goats, covered it with a blanket and heaped straw over that, gathered our belongings, and fled.

Violette, weak with shock and pain and blood loss, could barely walk let alone run, but I hurried her along all the same, my arm around her shoulders, careful not to put unneeded pressure on her wound, both of us stumbling along in the dark until we were out of the town and heading south along a rutted, uneven road. There was no moon that night and the clouds obscured the stars and I was thankful for the depth of the darkness that surrounded us and the cover it provided, even as I cursed my inability to see the ditches in the road that caused us both to trip and falter. Eventually, as the murky grey of pre-dawn began to wash over the land, we left the road for the wilderness, pushing in past the hedging and trees until we were far enough away from the road that we might not be seen, though I had no intention of stopping, knowing that to do so would give my body time to realise its exhaustion. Instead I went through our belongings, squeezing all we had into one case (which was not hard considering how much we had already rid ourselves of) and then used a rope from our tent to tie it to my back like a rucksack. With my hands free I was able to lift Violette into my arms and she did not protest, indeed she passed out minutes later, nestled against me, the dampness of her bloody sleeve sticking to my shirt and serving as a constant reminder that I needed to put as much distance between Susa and ourselves as possible. 

I kept the rising sun ahead of me as I walked and fought to keep my mind clear so that I would be able to continue. Every time I blinked the scene began to replay itself before me and I was filled with self-loathing that I had been so paralysed by my fear, to the point of Violette being hurt, and I held her tighter to me, remembering my promise to Jana, that I would keep her safe, yet I have never been adept at keeping promises, even when I wished to. Even with my eyes open and fixed upon the horizon I was plagued by images of the man who had attacked us, who had tracked us down so quickly, the man whom I had murdered. It weighs heavily on me still, and I was thankful for my burning lungs which forced me to breathe through my mouth, for the smell of blood made me want to vomit, but to do so would require me to stop, and that was simply not an option. 

I remained among the trees as I walked that day but soon the cover began to thin and by evening we were surrounded by farmland and several villages and towns were visible to both the east and south and my fear began to mount. For word could easily have been sent ahead, our descriptions passed on to the authorities in every town in the region, a price put upon our heads for all I knew. I had no wish to associate with anyone, even if they were ignorant of my crime, but was all too aware that Violette was in need of care, and a safe place to recover, and that my own body was near to exhaustion. As the evening drew in I happened upon a small, abandoned hut, the sort used by shepherds as they move about the fields with their flock, though this one seemed to have been left to the elements for some time, and managed to push the door open and get Violette inside with little trouble. There was a straw mattress on the floor and I lay her down there, falling to my knees and setting her down less gently than I would have liked though he barely registered the change in her position except to groan and curl herself more tightly into a ball upon the dusty blankets. 

I was desperate to check on her, to ensure that her injuries were not more severe than I feared, but the moment my knees hit the ground I was overwhelmed with dizziness and began to wretch violently, though there was nothing in my stomach to bring up. I placed my head on the edge of the mattress, trying to breathe, trying to think, but could not. I slept there, bent over and soaked in blood and sweat and awoke to a throbbing head, painful back, and a dreadful new understanding of the reality of the war, and the danger we truly were in.


	26. Chapter 26

My dearest --------,

Please forgive the silence of the last few days, and that I held on to the most recent pages of my narrative without giving them to you until today. I fear that reliving the memories contained within those pages caused me some disquiet and I have spent a good deal of time in my bed, arguing with myself as to whether I should even have written such a confession. I could have perhaps written myself in a better light, made it seem as if he had only been knocked unconscious, injured but alive and breathing when I left him... I am enough of a coward, I suppose, to write such a falsehood, but have grown tired of deception over the years, and of the burdens of my mistakes. 

There are so many crimes from that war which are still unanswered for, unpunished, and though I may argue that I have already suffered a great deal I know it is not enough to atone for the death of a man at my hand. Nothing is, even if he was a villain. I had seen death before, have seen it since, have seen mayhem and pain and hardship and despair. I smiled in the face of Otto Bauer’s death, have wept over the deaths of so many others, but all of that is different to dealing the death blow myself. I do not think of it often, indeed I try not to, but it is always there, crouched in the back of my mind, a sore that will fester within me until I too die. I began to wonder again yesterday, as I did that morning when I awoke in the shepherds’ hut, if the man, our attacker, had left behind a wife, now a widow, or children, or a lover. His soul, and theirs, are upon my head. Yet I know that my self pity is a dreadful thing, a shameful thing, for it gives no aid to those left behind, and no rest to the one already dead. 

I know too that you have been concerned for me, not knowing the cause of my sadness, and I hope that when you read those pages you will understand why I have been so removed. But now I fear to write on, save that I cannot, even in my mind, leave Violette in such a state.

For when I woke that morning, after recalling first the man left under the straw in Susa and what I had done, I was made aware of the far more pressing issue of my injured friend. I tried to move to see her more clearly but as I attempted to right myself I was rocked by another wave of nausea and crawled from the hut to vomit, my stomach giving up only bile and cramping afterwards, reminding me that it had been over a day since my last meal and that we carried very little food with us. 

I relieved myself, gazing warily out over the field which should have held some sign of life yet had none, and then walked unsteadily back inside, hoping desperately that Violette would wake and reassure me that she was fine and that there was no need to worry. And when I approached the bed she did open her eyes and the barest of smiles flitted across her face but it was quickly replaced by a look of pain as she attempted to move her arm, and I knelt down quickly by her side, desperate to help in some way, even though I dreaded seeing the wound. Her skin was hot and feverish when I touched it and her right hand was swollen and red, but she made no mention of it, breathing hard through her nose as I attempted to roll up her sleeve, only to find that the fabric was stuck to her skin, and would not pull free without causing excessive pain. 

Instead I urged her to sit up so that I could carefully remove her shirt entirely, noting the way her undervest clung to her as she continued to sweat furiously. The shirt sleeve was still stubbornly stuck to her skin and so I ventured back outside and located a small water butt behind the hut. It was only half full but the water seemed fresh enough and so I scooped some into the metal cup left for the purpose and carried it back to my patient. With the aid of the water I was able to ease the fabric away but could not restrain the hiss that escaped through my teeth when I saw what lay beneath. The cut was deep, raw and angry, quite clearly inflamed to the point of infection, and as the shirtsleeve was lifted away, caked in dark, dry blood, it began to ooze a watery, yellowish fluid that brought panic to my mind, for I knew it was a bad sign. 

Violette was staring at her arm in a daze, her face pale and damp and eyes glazed, and did not look up as I ripped her shirt in order to make bandages and rags to clean the wound. Despite the fact that the fabric was well worn and thin I still struggled to tear it with any satisfaction, a fact which nearly brought me to tears, so great was my frustration, but eventually I was able to clean and bandage her injury, whilst all the while Violette sat silent, until, when the task was finally complete, she looked up into my eyes and spoke with a voice so soft and child-like that I barely recognised it as hers.

“I cannot feel my fingers, Rosey.”

I immediately moved to loosen the bandage but she shook her head and used her left hand to bring her damaged arm close to her chest.

“You cannot feel your fingers?” I repeated gently, not knowing what else to say or how capable she was of reason and conversation but she nodded solemnly before replying. 

“And I cannot move them... How did we come to be here?”

I smiled at that, though I do not know why, and recounted to her briefly our flight from Susa, that we had travelled through the night and the next day until coming across the hut. She nodded, though still seemed confused, and didn’t resist when I helped her to lay back against the dusty blankets, closing her eyes too easily and falling into a fitful sleep. I returned to the water butt outside but drank sparingly, aware that there was no sign of rain on the horizon and no other source of water within reach. Our food supplies too were minimal and in my exhaustion and fear it was difficult to think what the best course of action might be, what needed to be done, how we were to progress.

I scanned the landscape, trying to find my bearings, but it was difficult. I feared that we had strayed too far south and would miss Milan entirely but did not dare to seek out a village and enquire as to our location, not when we were both so wild looking and blood-soaked. Far to the east there seemed to be a sizable town and I wondered whether it could be Turin, a place we had planned to skirt around because of the many upheavals there, but which was also a landmark on our journey and a sign that Milan was within reach. My mind was a tangle of conflicting emotions and ideas and I retreated once more to the low ceilinged hut, wishing that Violette would recover enough to simply tell me what to do, for every scenario I pieced together in my mind for the next stage of our journey seemed to end with our capture, imprisonment and death. 

But she slept for hours, feverish and mumbling, occasionally crying out but never moving her injured arm from its cradled position against her chest. I tried to ease her discomfort by wetting her brow with a clean scrap of cloth and the little water left to us but for hours I simply felt useless, sitting by her side and fretting, without a clue of how to help her properly. The late afternoon sun was streaming through the cracks in the ill-fitting door and filling the small hut with a thick, warm light when Violette’s eye lids finally fluttered open again. She looked up at me, blinking against the light and trying to focus, and it took me a moment to realise that she was conscious, and probably in need of my help.

“Where are we?” she whispered hoarsely, trying to lift her head as I brought the cup to her lips to drink.

“Near Turin, I think,” I told her once she had drunk and been resettled on the mattress. “In a shepherd’s hut, but I... I don’t really know where we are,” I said weakly, my fear bubbling forth like the tears that escaped to tumble down my cheeks and into my untidy beard.

“Oh, Gui,” she said softly. “Thank you, for all you have done. It will be alright. We shall make it. We shall find him.”

Strangely, though my thoughts had still been focused on reaching our destination, it had slipped my mind as to why we were heading there, other than the need to get Violette to a doctor and a place of safety. I had not thought of Victor in almost two days and it felt strange to remember him, to realise that Violette had been hurt so gravelly helping me in my pursuit of a man who had left me and given me little encouragement to seek him out again. My chest tightened further, my panic building, but Violette reached out to me with her left hand and grasped my coat sleeve with more strength than I expected from her.

“Rosey. Gui, listen to me. This was not your fault. You saved me. And we shall find Victor, for he loves you and he needs you. And I do not regret coming with you. Please, Gui, my love, calm your mind. All will be well.”

I nodded dumbly but struggled to stop the flow of tears. I had not told her what had become of her attacker and the thought of doing so, of revealing what I had done, only made my panic worse, and it was several minutes before I was calm enough to speak again, to ask her what she needed me to do.

“I do not know what should happen next,” I murmured, but Violette simply grasped my sleeve more firmly and pulled herself up to sit again.

“I think we need to keep moving,” she said softly, but with conviction. “It is nearly evening? Then we should eat, if we have food, and then use the night as our cover. The sooner we are in Milan the better for us both. It is while we are exposed out here that we are in danger.”

“But your arm-”

“Hurts,” she said with more force, agreeing with me but refusing to back down. “But it shall hurt all the more if we wait too long and do not have it attended to. If we can reach the Italian Resistance in Milan we will have access to their doctors, and their food. It is our best course of action, Gui. And it is, as you say, my arm. I can still walk.” 

I wanted to argue, to point out that the wound was not so trifling as to be dismissed only a day after it had occurred, and that she needed to rest rather than to put more strain upon her body, but I said nothing. The fire was back in Violette’s eyes, the determination to do what needed to be done, rather than what was easy. She was more aware than I of the seriousness of the injury but equally aware of the danger of remaining in the countryside, exposed and without allies. And so I fetched the bread, hard cheese and salted goat’s meat we had left and we ate, though not as much as we both needed, for we did not wish to deplete our rations when there was no guarantee that we would be able to procure more. I helped Violette into our last remaining shirt, holding my tongue when I saw her wince and flush at the pain in her arm, and then wrapped her coat about her shoulders, settling her cap back over her messy hair. Her braid had become tangled over the weeks of our journey, despite her efforts to keep it in order, and she had mused that it would be better to cut it save that we did not have any scissors, and she repeated the sentiment to me again, saying that when we finally reached Milan she would request that it was all cut away, for any attempt to comb out the tangled curls would simply be too painful, and rather pointless.

“It is strange,” she said as we set off with the setting sun at our backs, “for I was once quite vain about my hair. Jana used to braid it for me, do you know, and I would do the same for her, and it was... relaxing, I suppose, to sit back and have one’s hair stroked and cared for. But my attachment to it has waned. I shall have to make do with Jana’s hair when we return, which is a happy sacrifice, for hers is far more beautiful than mine. I do hope...”

She left the thought to hang in the air, the fear that the Paris we hoped to return to would not be recognisable, now that it was held in the clutches of Hitler and his monsters, that we would not be able to return at all. Yet when I glanced down at her, Violette’s face was firm rather than melancholy, and her eyes were fixed upon the dark shadows of the distant towns, and I did likewise, matching her strides as we journeyed, my hand ready at her elbow in case she should stumble or lose her strength in the face of the pain that I knew was radiating outward from her arm in waves. And so we continued our journey.

I do not think I can put into words the admiration I felt, and still feel, for my friend. She walked through the night with me and, though our progress was not swift, she did not falter. We skirted around a city, which I now feel certain was Turin, but did not approach, and hurriedly found our way back to open country, veering slightly north, as best we could, so that we would not miss Milan when it came into our sights. When the morning was upon us we found a collection of large rocks to shelter by, using their shade as protection from the wind and sun, and anyone who might gaze out at the landscape. I encouraged Violette to sleep and took the first watch, but did not wake her when the sun had passed midday, but instead made myself comfortable enough to doze, desperately hoping that no one would come our way. And no one did, though we were both startled awake later in the afternoon by planes droning overhead. We made the decision to continue and so once again began to walk. 

It was four days more before we realised, as the sun began to rise, that we could see another city, that the track we were on had become a wide road, and that there were collections of houses and buildings which indicated that we were approaching the outer suburbs of a city. We were both near delirious, I think, Violette more so than I, though I had forgone food so that she might eat and keep up her strength, and we veered off the road, but not before we were seen.

The shout rang out in the still air like a pistol shot, a young man’s voice calling to us and we tried to run, only to stumble from the road and down a steep embankment. Violette cried out as she fell upon her injured arm but it seemed distant as the blood pulsed loudly in my ears and fear overtook my senses and I crawled to her, desperate to hide her from whoever had spotted us, but it was too late, and a shadow fell across us as the young man, followed by two others, climbed down to where we lay, approaching us with caution.

“Are you soldiers? Or runaway prisoners? We won’t hurt you, just tell us who you are.”

It took me a moment to process his words, to translate it in my head, but his voice was gentle, if cautious, and I turned, squinting in the harsh dawn light, but could not make out his face. I held my hands up to show that I meant no harm, that we were not a threat and held no weapons and they approached, stopping to draw in sharp breaths when they saw the fresh blood seeping through Violette’s sleeve. 

“Are you runaways?” the man asked again, moving forward until he could kneel before us. “We will not hand you over, if you are. We can help.”

I turned to look at him, taking in his tan skin and gentle eyes, and the scar across his jawline which seemed so out of place on such a young, innocent-seeming face. I desperately wanted to trust him, to tell him all but I held back, not wishing to reveal myself to one who may have been merely trying to lure me into a trap.

“We are not runaways,” I said eventually and he startled at my accent.

The others moved forward to inspect us closely, speaking low and fast so that I could not understand until the young man kneeling by my side put a hesitant hand to my shoulder.

“Do I... do I know you?”

I shook my head and tried to move further in front of Violette but another of the men moved forward and knelt by her.

“He is hurt,” he said, low and urgent. “His arm, and this blood stinks. Thomas,” he gestured to the man with the scar, “we need to get him to a doctor.”

They began to organise to move her, but I shuffled once again to block their access to her, only for the leader of the group, Thomas, to take my shoulder more firmly in his grasp than before.

“We can help,” he said. “We shan’t hand you over, you do not have to fear us... Why do you seem so very familiar?”

I stared at him in confusion as Violette was lifted gently and carried to a small cart where she way laid down to be transported, my mind still in a whirl of panic for I did not know their intentions toward us.

“You do not know me,” I told him. “I have never been here before. We are seeking... a friend.”

“But I do,” he insisted. “I know I do. I have seen your face. But where?”

I began to argue against him, but another of the men ran forward to inform us that they were ready to move on and that they needed to hurry.

“We must get him to the doctor, Thomas, we must leave now, and... but you’re right, he is familiar, but not because we have met him. No... His portrait hangs in the General’s room, he is a friend of Signor Bauer.”

My heart began to beat with such force at those words, at hearing that name, that I feared I was in fact having a heart attack. I staggered to my feet, my wild eyes and ragged appearance causing the other men to back away, all of them save Thomas. He instead brought both hands to my upper arms, a fierce smile on his lips and his eyes dancing, as he stared at me as if trying to see past the beard which had grown over the almost two months since we had bid farewell to Paris. 

“You are, aren’t you?” he said quietly, his voice filled with awe which I did not understand. “You are! You are the man from the portrait? Signor Rosa?”

I nodded, too overcome to speak, but his smile grew broader, understanding my excitement as well as my exhaustion as he led me toward the cart, urging me to sit beside Violette, but I still could not quite understand how we had managed to be so lucky, or how they knew Victor.

“Where...” I gasped, my body shaking as my nerves began to get the better of me. “Where are we going?” 

“We must take you to the General,” they told me carefully. “And your friend, he needs care.”

“Never fear,” Thomas said to me, climbing into the cart as it began to move in to the city, crates of corn cobs rattling on either side of us. “You are among friends now. The General will be pleased to see you, I think. He has been anticipating news from you but I did not think you would bring it in person. And it seems you have met with some trouble along your way.”

We both looked down at Violette, shivering again and barely conscious where she lay with her head cushioned on a young man’s leg, her skin pale and waxy. 

“The OVRA,” I replied quietly, and the other men nodded. “She fought him valiantly. She is far braver than I.”

The men responded to the revelation of Violette’s sex with little more than raised eyebrows but I could sense their esteem rise, and as the cart continued on toward the city they moved about her protectively, already willing to defend her, though they had only just met her, as I explained a little of what had happened, glossing over my own actions, and explaining that the wound was now a week old, and that I feared the depth of the infection that had taken hold.

They reassured me that they knew doctors who could help her, and that we would be welcomed with open arms to the Resistance, all the while talking of their General, and the glorious fight against the Fascists until we entered the city proper and they turned their conversation to only simple, non-threatening topics, seeming to all intents to be no more than country boys - farmers on their way to deliver their crop - but their smiles were bright with excitement whenever they looked in my direction and when we entered a bustling market square, one which I recognised from one of Bauer’s sketches, Thomas turned to me and grasped my shoulder once more.

“Welcome to Milan, Signor Rosa. It is a pleasure to have you.”


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I'm just going to apologise now. If you are not a fan of mentions of blood and injury (more so than have been in previous chapters) then this is not the chapter for you. Sorry. Also just sorry generally.

The market place was bustling, though not in the usual way, for there were few stalls, little produce, and nothing of the expected industry that one might imagine in such a location. The smiles slid from the faces of our new-found companions when they took in the scene but it took my hazy consciousness a long moment to realise what had caused their sudden change in spirits. For the square held a gallows. 

It seems unthinkable now, to have witnessed hangings, and at the time it seemed too surreal - a nightmare come to life - a grotesquely painted scene that could not possibly be true. The only mercy, small though it was, was the fact that the horror had already taken place, and what we entered into, as the cart slowed to a stop in the square, was the wretched aftermath. Fear was so thick in the air that it was tangible, a taste both acrid and tart, and the way the people moved, swarming about in the flow of their overwhelming emotions, brought me to the verge of panic once more. I brought my head down to my knees, attempting to breathe evenly, to block out the feelings, sounds, and movement of the people around me, but I could not, and my body began to sway as I lost the tenuous hold I had had on my emotions, and my consciousness. 

The young man, Thomas, grasped my knee, his face suddenly coming into focus before me as he jumped down beside the cart.

“Signore?”

I looked at him but could not speak. I could not for I feared to open my mouth lest I should vomit and draw attention to myself, but he saw the desperation in my eyes and quickly moved to the front of the cart, guiding the horse as swiftly as he could through the crowd, but we could not avoid the grisly scene that stood centre stage for all to see. Two police cars blocked any direct access to the gallows, and there were people howling, crying, and desperately trying to reach the bodies which hung so forlornly from the scaffold. The soldiers and police stood stoically against the crowd, weapons at the ready, though it was clear that even they were uncomfortable for, of those eight bodies, two seemed far too young to have met such an end, and at least three appeared to be women, though it was hard to tell, as their heads were shaved and they had obviously been beaten and tortured before being executed. 

Tears filled my eyes at the sight of it, at the thought of it, and my stomach flipped and clenched, for what had we stumbled upon? What danger had we gone so readily into? And, I wondered, as we finally left the scene behind, what state Victor would be in when we finally reached him? 

It seemed to take an age to pass through the crowd and we came close enough to the square’s gory centre piece that I feared we would be discovered, but eventually we made it to a narrower street, shadowed and cool after the brightness of the marketplace and I tried to breathe and calm my heart but found it nearly impossible to do so, and our companions had grown tense and wary as they looked about, checking that we had not been followed and were not heading into a trap.

With the market square behind us the men began to move from their positions in the cart, walking beside it, though they insisted that I stay where I was. I was too weary to argue with them and so sat back until I could rest against one of the crates, wondering if it truly contained corn or whether it was simply cover for something else. The only other member of our group who stayed in the cart with us was the young man whose lap was providing Violette with a pillow and I noticed how his hand was pressed to her arm, stemming the fresh flow of blood even though it had left his fingers and jacket stained with red and brown, his eyes never once straying from his patient, ever watchful, even as we passed by the soldiers, though he was careful to shield her from them, so that they would not see her injury and become suspicious. 

I tried to stay alert as we moved through the narrow streets, to take in my surroundings in case I needed to find my way back out again, but simply could not force my eyes to obey, and resorted to staring at the sky, the jostling of the cart lulling me until I nearly slept, before I noticed, as we passed it, a fountain that I recognised, though it took me a rather long time to realise that I knew it from the sketch Victor had sent to me. I attempted to hide my excitement, not wishing to give myself and Victor away in this new set of circumstances, for I was sure that he must have picked up some new persona and I did not wish to jeopardise it by behaving like a man so desperately in love.

I had not really imagined what my actual meeting with Victor would be like, had been too occupied with the journey, and then my fear during that final week, and so it was not until I recognised the fountain that it finally became a reality within my mind, that I was about to see him, to behold him. And inexplicably it made me incredibly angry. Violette beside me was shivering, and I could not tell whether she was conscious or not for her eyes were closed and her face slack, but I could see the fresh blood seeping from beneath her bandage, and the worry on the young man’s face as he cared for her. She had come with me out of love and a sense of responsibility to her younger friend, to Victor, and now I feared for her life. And all the while, as we had fretted and journeyed to him, fearing that he was in danger, he had been continuing Otto Bauer’s legacy - a man who had loathed him and treated him with contempt, and as a slave rather than a son - setting himself up as a General of all things, fighting for a people who were not even his own. 

I wished that he could have simply written to us plainly and told us not to come, to make it clear that he did not wish to leave, and had no need for us, but then, I suppose, he had written that we should not come, had he not? He had warned us against the journey yet we had ventured forth anyway and could hardly blame him for our decision, I realised. And so my anger was transferred to myself, for if it had not been for me we would none of us have been put into such a situation. 

I began to dread our arrival, my heart racing horribly and the sick panic rising anew in my chest as I contemplated the possible reactions to our unexpected appearance. I wondered how angry Victor would be, whether he would rail against me or simply treat me as a stranger or acquaintance. Whether he would wish to acknowledge us at all, whether he would have time for such things amongst the many other duties he seemed to be charged with, if what our new companions said was true. I wondered if he regretted sending the letter to us, whether he would regret the action once he realised we had indeed tracked him down. I wondered how often he thought of me, whether he thought of me at all. I had been recognised from a portrait that hung in his room, somewhere prominent enough to have been seen by many, enough that the men had been able to identify me by it, and so I hoped desperately that he did still think of me with fondness, reasoned that he would have no reason to have my likeness upon his wall if he no longer cared for me. 

The cart began to slow as we turned a corner, and I turned to look around, only to realise that before us was a busy, winding lane and that under a large tree I could see a picturesque florist stall and, beyond that, a graffiti’d wall, just as it had been in Bauer’s sketch. We had arrived and I suddenly felt that my emotions were bubbling too close to the surface, that I was too exhausted, overwrought, and out of my depth, to face him without making a fool of myself. Thomas came back to stand beside me, to assist me as I stumbled from the cart, and as he grasped my arm to steady me, he looked into my eyes with great worry.

“We must take your companion directly to the doctors, Signore. I think it the highest priority. And I think you should be seen by them as well. Can your information wait a few more hours while your immediate needs are cared for? I will go in person to the General and inform him of your arrival but I think you both need care before you report. Do you agree?”

I nodded dumbly, both because he was right to prioritize Violette over all else, and because I did not trust myself to be able communicate, for my brain was moving too slowly to even understand all of what I think he was telling me. At the same time my heart screamed that I did not care a whit for my own health and did not need to see a doctor, that I only needed to lay eyes on Bauer in order to be well, but I squashed the feeling, trying to convince myself that it was better to listen to reason than my delusional and sleep-deprived emotions. And so I nodded and Thomas held my arm as he steered me down a cramped alleyway and a narrower stairway to a nondescript door in a backstreet building. 

Two others followed, carrying Violette carefully between them, whilst the remaining two went about the business of unloading the crates, and whatever it was they had actually brought with them from the country to the city. It was all very covert, and the room we entered appeared to be an empty basement until a sheet was removed from a wall to reveal a passageway to another room, and then another, until finally I emerged, blinking, into a large, low-ceilinged hall which had the very appearance of a hospital wing, complete with beds, nurses and, at the far end, a corridor which led to a simple operating theatre. A woman immediately approached us, speaking too fast for me to follow her and I was hurried to a bed and made to lie down, though I tried to explain that there was not much wrong with me and that it was Violette who needed help.

“She is already being taken through to surgery, Signore,” the woman said more slowly, her eyes searching mine as if trying to understand why I was there rather than simply asking me. “My sister is with her. I will join her shortly, as soon as I am satisfied that there is nothing more serious out here than dehydration and lack of food.”

“Her name is Violette. She needs a doctor,” I tried to tell her, but half of my words tumbled forth in French rather than Italian and my head was pushed back to the pillow firmly and orders given to the other women who had gathered at my bedside though, when she turned back to me, her voice was kind as and she spoke to me.

“Is it easier if I speak to you in French? Good. Monsieur, my name is Maria De Santis, and I am aware that your companion is in need of help. We will do what we can, but you can help us by telling me exactly what happened and when.”

It was such a relief to be able to speak to her in my first language that I began to tell her everything - how we had travelled through the alps, how we had been ambushed, how Violette had fought and been injured. How I had tried to clean the wound and bandage it, but how it had begun to fester, how she had suffered from fevers and had spent the final night of our journey vomiting, how she had continued to walk, despite that, how she could not feel her fingers, and could not move them. 

“She needs a doctor,” I repeated at the end, pleadingly, “please.”

“I know, monsieur,” she told me solemnly, and her eyes, when she looked down at me, were so large and dark that I could see my own ragged reflection in their depths. And then she smiled. “I am a doctor. Thank you for your help.”

And with that she departed, donning a white surgical gown and mask and exiting down the corridor the the room where Violette had been taken. Several nurses descended upon me, bringing a curtain around my bed and bearing basins of water and cloths and Thomas laughed as he saw my eyes widen with panic.

“Never fear, signore, they will be gentle (as long as you are respectful). But now I must leave you.” My panic rose again at that, but he gave me a reassuring smile. “To find the General and inform him of your arrival. You are safe here, signore. The De Santis sisters are the best doctors I know. You are safe, Signor Rosa, I promise you.”

At which point he too left me, and I was at the mercy of the nurses who stripped and washed me, tutting over my emaciated frame and pursing their lips at the state of my feet, for several of the blisters had burst and become infected, a fact which I had been ignorant of, only knowing that my feet had hurt, and not the extent of the damage. When they brought a razor to my bedside I tried to argue that I could shave my own face until one of the nurses, an older woman with a very stern brow, lifted my hand and pointed out that I was in fact shaking, and would likely have cut my own throat if left alone with a blade. I grudgingly agreed and she did a far better job than I would have been able to, better than I achieve now, I expect, and she wiped the last of the foam from my face when she was done and gazed at me with a strange admiration. 

“You are to report to Bauer, I hear,” she told me, speaking French, much to my relief, “else I would not have bothered to shave you so neatly. You looked like a bear before. Now I can see the man who he has drawn so fondly and so often. It is good that you are here, signore, but I have a question.”

“Of course,” I nodded to her, realising that she might be able to tell me more about Bauer, and that I owed these people an explanation for my sudden appearance, and she settled herself more comfortably in the chair beside my bed, her face turning from strict matron to concerned mother.

“I see things, you understand,” she spoke softly, “and I worry. And I worry about Monsieur Bauer. He is a very good leader, he works with people, rather than giving orders, and will not tolerate any sort of prejudice within his ranks. My two daughters were laughed out of the medical profession, you know, because of their sex, because women should not be surgeons and they were supposed to deal only with the problems of women and childbirth. In the Resistance they have a place and their skills are respected and Monsieur Bauer has stayed true to that in the time he has been with us. We have been stronger since he joined us, there is hope again, in Milan, and yet...”

I let the silence sit between us as my tired brain made sense of her words, disquiet blossoming within me as I picked up on her worry. 

“And yet?”

“And yet...” she sighed. “He is charming, he is everything to everyone, he gets results and boosts morale and does all that we need him to. He knows every woman, man and child involved in the Resistance here in Milan, is a father to many, yet he himself is still just a boy. He cannot be much older than thirty, yet no one knows his age or even very much about him. Except for you. We all know of you. For when he is tired or bored or angry or fearful... then he draws your likeness on whichever paper he has to hand. All have seen the larger portrait he has above his desk but those of us who live with him, who have known him all this while, we have seen - I have seen - the numerous times he has drawn your face. Your absence from his life has been as a puzzle piece missing from his soul, I think. He calls you La Rosa, the Rose, and others, especially the younger members, they speculate about you. They wonder about such a code name, and what you are to him - a brother or a mentor some say, or a spy - and whether you, like he, are part of the movement to stop this foolish war and the oppression of our people.” 

“And is that your question?” I asked her slowly, looking into her eyes, which were so like her daughter Maria’s - large and dark and knowing - but she shook her head.

“No, Monsieur Rosa. My question to you is, do you intend to stay? For the General, though he excels in his post, seems to be missing part of himself, and I think it is you he is missing, and I do not think he can do without you. His mind is sharp and his wisdom is great, but his heart is so very young. He took over from my husband, you know, who named him as successor after having known him only a month, but we knew Otto Bauer, and that was enough for my husband, but I see something different in the son. He was perhaps too inexperienced and young to take on his post but he has risen to it admirably, that is not the problem. No, the problem is...” here she looked around, to ensure that we could not be overheard. “The problem is... that I know he is not entirely well, within his mind. The others do not know of it but he lives in my home and I have heard him cry out in the night, I have seen the exhaustion on his face some mornings when he has emerged from his room, claiming he slept when I know he did not. I know from the paint on his hands and the paint on the walls that he did not. But he will wash and smile and drink his coffee and behave just as he is expected to for as long as he can, but he is troubled. I thinks perhaps you are the key to that. I know love, when I see it, and pining too. And now here you are, having come so very far to find him, your eyes fever bright at every mention of his name. So, monsieur, at the risk of sounding too much like his mother, I must ask you, what are your intentions?”

I did not know what to say to that, and so I said nothing, but my silence seemed to confirm for her that I was indeed as important to her general as she seemed to think. She was a wise woman and my heart was warmed to know that Victor had been cared for by a woman so adept at mothering, protective and loving, yet subtle in her watchfulness. And I was not greatly surprised that he had won her affections though I wondered how he had managed to garner such great affection in a relatively short time, for he had been in Milan for only a year, yet everyone I had met (and truthfully, everyone I went on to meet during my time there) was devoted to him, utterly, and behaved as if he had been guiding their movement for a lifetime. But still, even knowing that he had built a home and life for himself there, the thought of staying when I had journeyed forth in order to bring him home terrified me.

“I do not know,” I told her honestly. “I only know I need to be with him. But I think there is more to his discontent than simply our separation -”

I was given no chance to answer further, however for a scream echoed through the hall, a scream I knew well, and I struggled from the bed, cursing my exhausted body for its lack of cooperation, but was aided by my nurse, Senora De Santis, who, instead of pushing me back to the mattress, put her arm around my waist and helped me make my way toward Violette. 

My bare feet on the concrete floor could barely take my weight, pain slicing upwards through my heels, and though I was dressed in only a simple, white, hospital smock I did not care, determined to reach her side when she was in such obvious distress. And when I arrived at the operating room I could see why. The young man from the cart was attempting to hold her down, aided by the young doctor I had met upon our arrival, whilst another doctor, her sister, attempted to inject her with a needle. They were hindered by Violette’s violent thrashing, her movements frantic and pained, her arm and chest a mess of old and dried blood that made her appear like some experiment gone horribly wrong.

I rushed to her, falling at the last but grasped her free hand, her good hand, and began to whisper to her that she was safe, that we had found friends, that all would be well. 

“She woke up,” Maria told me, letting go of her charge so that I could come closer, stroking my hand down Violette’s cheek to calm her panic as she attempted to focus her darting eyes on my face and not the strange room she had found herself in. 

The others, on Maria’s word, let go as well, and as she was released I saw the fear drain from Violette’s eyes. She was not quite lucid, unsure of her surroundings and, I think, caught in a dream, terrified that she had been captured and about to be tortured, and so I continued to talk to her softly, telling her that we had finally arrived in Milan, that Victor had been sent word that we were here and was on his way to us, that she was safe. 

“What do they want, Rosey?” she whispered to me, her voice high and faint. “They tried to strap me down, they tried to sedate me. What’s happening, Gui?”

I blinked back the tears as I took in the sight of her - brown eyes fearful and unfocused, hair matted and stuck to her forehead, cheeks sunken, skin burnt - the journey had taken more out of both of us than we could have imagined and I hated myself for instigating it, for bringing such hardship upon her.

“It is her arm,” Maria whispered to me desperately. “It is worse than we feared. When you told me of it I was concerned that there was damage to the tendons, and there is, but the infection and the nature of the wound... Monsieur, I believe it has become gangrenous. It needs to be amputated. I am sorry.”

“But...” I did not know what to say, how to respond to such words. How could I tell my dearest friend such news?

I looked over at her other arm, lying lifeless on the bed. I had barely seen it in the days since we had left the hut for Violette feared to remove the bandage when we had nothing else on hand to keep it clean and wrapped, and no water to wash it, but now I stared at what had, only a week ago, been a healthy limb and was now little more than a decaying piece of meat. Her fingers were dark and purple, her hand and wrist swollen, like a corpse washed up on the banks of the river, and tears began to blur my vision as I looked higher and saw the pus, the exposed flesh, the so obviously dead flesh, of the wound itself. 

“My love,” I whispered to her, trying to keep my voice low as to be only for her ears, but concerned that she would not be able to hear me at all, in her state of disorientation. “Violette, I am so sorry my love. Your arm...”

“It is gone,” she told me, nodding shakily. “I am sorry, Gui. It has already gone. Tell Victor that I am sorry?”

She closed her eyes, slipping back into unconsciousness, and I closed my eyes against the overwhelming pain of seeing her so broken, so unlike the person she had always been. The doctors and nurses returned to their posts, prepping her for the amputation, but I could not move, and resisted the attempts to usher me from the room, sobbing but unable to hear myself as the world turned to white noise, fighting those who sought to move me until the nurses finally let go and two small, yet strong hands slipped under my arms, their touch seeming to turn my body to rags, and dragged me away, back to my bed, where I curled up on my side, hoping to hide my tears from the strangers who surrounded me.

“It will be alright,” heard a voice say, but I shook my head. “I am sorry, Rosey. So sorry. For everything. Sleep now, dear heart, all will be well.”

Exhaustion fogged my mind, the room spinning and tilting about me until I could see nothing but a blur of colour which made my stomach sick, and so I did as the voice bid me and closed me eyes, relaxing as I felt deft fingers stroke through my hair, dirty though it still was, sliding through the tangles and scratching against my skull in a way that would always send me into a stupor. 

I was almost finally, blessedly, asleep when the thought wafted into my mind that there was only one person in the world who knew how greatly I enjoyed having my hair and scalp caressed in such a way, only one whose fingers felt as those did, only one person whose touch my body would recognise and respond to even when in the throws of my anxiety and delirium. I tried to focus on the words, the voice - lilting and soft, French but with an Austrian accent - but it was difficult. My body had finally collapsed and I could not fight its need to sleep.

“Sleep now, my Rosey. My dear one, my strange one, my constant Rosey. Rest, my love, all will be well. I am here.” 

I forced my eyes open one last time but could not focus them. All I saw, before they shut once more and plunged me into unconsciousness was the blurred outline of a face - a nose, dark hair brushed back, two blue eyes, striking even when out of focus - and then I gave in to his command, and slept as his fingers continued to stroke my hair, finally at ease, finally back by his side. In the safe hands of my Bauer.


	28. Chapter 28

He entered my dreams again last night, filling my senses with his presence, appearing as at once the twenty-six-year-old man-child with pearly skin who smelt of bougainvillea, yet spoke so wisely; and then as the man of thirty-five, with a body and face of weathered marble, sending orders to guerrilla troops throughout the Italian countryside, leading raids and gaol-breaks, and organising food and shelter for those who had been dispossessed by the Fascist government, yet with the eyes of an angel, pure and light yet full of vengeance. He is with me most nights now. When once my dreams were vague - meaningless to my wakeful mind, or forgotten upon rising - now they are visions and memories, his face and his voice, so clear and real that I wake up and wonder where he has gone, and then despair at not being able to recall exactly the way he tilted his head as he smiled, the sound of his voice when he said my name. I awoke with tears in my eyes today and spent far too long staring out over the lake, its water so still, grey and icy and inviting, and the sweep of the land, the mist of the morning dissipating to show me, against my will, Italy. Missing him is becoming unbearable.

There have been times, many times, when people have assumed that I somehow saved him, that I was good for him, that I did something, anything, to improve his life or mind or mental state. But those people have always been mistaken. For it was not really a rescue mission that I embarked upon, and I was never the one to sweep him from his feet and rescue him from harm. Even when I have liked to fancy I might have. No, it was always him. I brought nothing to his life, I think, but worry, loss, tears, heartache. He brought to me life, love, courage, all of the things I lacked, and he saved me on so many occasions. And when he left me I sought him out, needy and stubborn and desperate. He was fragile certainly, his mind was not always entirely his own and he struggled with the scars his parents had left upon his heart and mind, and the scars left by others who had taken advantage of his good nature. He was something strange and beautiful in the world, born at a time of such intense ugliness and fear of the unknown, it is a wonder he thrived as he did. Yet he was still the strong one. I vowed, to him, to myself, to Violette and Jana, that I would protect him, and I always failed. It was he who protected me, and I worry, so often, even all these years later, at how much I cost him. 

And yet I cannot pretend that, when I opened my eyes and saw him dozing in the chair by my bed, I was not filled with relief and love that he was there beside me, that he had chosen to remain close, even though it had cost him a decent night’s sleep, and who knows what else, for he did not look comfortable. His feet were resting on the end of my bed, his head tilted to rest against the frame of the bed on the other side, arms pulled tight around himself, his mouth slack and brow creased. He was dressed in a rather shabby looking brown suit, one which he owned for as long as I had known him, and which had always seemed so incongruous with his personality. It still did not suit him in the slightest, hanging off his frame awkwardly, rumpled and gathered up around his sleeping body, looking like a hessian sack only less attractive, but the same could not be said for the man himself. 

His jaw was heavily stubbled, a dark shadow across his wan face, and his cheekbones were prominent; hard, as if chiseled from marble, barely softened even by the sweep of his long lashes or the dark smudges beneath his eyes. His hair, though still slicked back from his face, was short, shorter than I had ever seen it before, the ends flicking out behind his ears and leaving his neck exposed, and I was desperate to reach out and caress that expanse of pale skin, but my body felt too heavy to move and, besides that, I did not wish to disturb him when he was quite clearly exhausted. A folder and stack of papers was perched precariously on his lap - plans, letters, and a series of keys and codes - and I stared a moment longer, drinking in the sight of the man who I had missed so desperately. I am aware that I had aged in the year we had been apart, and that I had aged badly, but he too seemed to have aged more than twelve months could account for. There were lines around his eyes, a grim set to his jaw, his lips thin and a seriousness that seemed to radiate from his very being. He looked, to be honest, closer to his actual age than he ever had before, for the boyishness was entirely gone from his face. He was as thin as ever yet seemed to wear it differently somehow - the leanness due to muscle and his active lifestyle rather than simply a lack of food - and it occurred to me that he had grown up. 

I suspected that Signora De Santis had done her best to encourage him to eat regularly and had probably been driven to despair at his lack of consideration for his own body on more than one occasion and, as I thought it, she appeared before us, tying her apron around her waist and giving the sleeping Bauer a look that was full of both affection and exasperation. She went first to the other bed, to check upon Violette I realised, and I pushed myself into a sitting position so that I could see for myself that she was there, was alive - and to see the damage to her body. She had been carefully washed and dressed in a sleeveless, purple nightgown, a violet nightgown, I realised, but she looked very different from the woman I had used to know. Her figure, always petite, was wasted away to almost nothing and her hair was cropped short to her head, though I knew that that at least would not bother her, for she had wanted it gone by the end our journey. I looked at her carefully, taking in every other part of her before I dared to turn my gaze to her arm, what was left of it.

The bandages were thick, white, and expertly tied and it was a small relief that at least she was in a place where she was clean and cared for. Her arm stopped at the elbow and I felt bile rise in my throat and tears to my eyes at the reality of what had happened to her, that my actions had left her crippled and incomplete. There was a bruise on her cheek, possibly from when we had fallen down the embankment the day before, as well as bruises on both of her arms,and near her neck, and she seemed to have suffered far more than I could reasonably comprehend, considering I had been with her through the entire experience.

Yet for all of that she seemed peaceful as she slept. Signora De Santis changed the dressing on her arm and checked her temperature, looked over her complexion and pulled at her eyelid to check her eyes and then nodded with satisfaction, looking up and giving me a smile.

“She will be alright, I think,” she said in thickly accented French as she moved quietly around to my bedside. “The surgery was a success and she seems to be recovering. We are giving her penicillin to prevent any further infection and as soon as she wakes we will give her more pain medication. It will be a slow recovery, but we believe she will get through it.”

“Thank you,” I murmured, trying to process the fact that the lower half of Violette’s arm was gone - that she was permanently altered. 

“It was lucky you found us when you did,” she continued as she began to fuss about, checking my eyes, pinching the skin of my wrist, and then sticking a fresh thermometer into my mouth. “Another day and we might not have been so lucky. As it was my Lucia was able to save the whole upper arm and the swelling is no more than is to be expected.”  
 “How-” I asked once she removed the thermometer and bustled off, returning with a tray of biscuits and a steaming cup of weakly coloured water. “How long have I been asleep?”

“It has just passed eight o’clock in the morning, monsieur,” she replied. “So around twenty hours I suppose.”

“And what is this?” I asked, gesturing to the tray which she had deposited in my lap.

“Ossi dei morti e tisane della salute,” she responded, then chuckled at my furrowed brow. “Plain biscuits and herbal tea. You need to reintroduce your stomach to food and water, you are quite severely dehydrated. If you can do that then by dinner you will be allowed to eat proper food, possibly, but for now -” she gestured at the tray and I took the cue and raised the weak tea to my lips.

I know that it was considered a meal fit only for an invalid and that she pitied me for having to drink such a tasteless beverage, but after so long with nought but rain water and dried meat and drier cheese it was truly heavenly and I struggled to drink and eat slowly so that my stomach did not immediately rebel at being filled after so long on so little. As I ate I turned my eyes again to Victor and my nurse followed my gaze, tutting before bustling off once more and returning with a large, steaming mug of coffee.

“Every one else prefers a proper espresso,” she told me conspiratorially, “because they are of sound mind. But he does not care as long as it is strong and in large amounts. He will not thank me for letting him sleep so late, so I must have his coffee at the ready to appease him.”

She said it all with good humour and a chuckle but I could easily read the concern in her words and tucked the information away in my mind for further thought, for at that moment my mind was wholly occupied by the waking Bauer.

He blinked groggily several times before closing his eyes again, then stretched as much as he was able in his chair, grabbing his papers before they slid from his lap as if out of habit - as if he quite regularly fell asleep under his work - before finally taking a deep breath in through his nose, opening his eyes and looking in my direction. The smile he gave me was a sleepy one, for he was not entirely awake yet, and he looked so much like his old self, so sweet and care-free, that all I could do was smile back, my heart soaring within my chest.

“Good morning, my love,” he murmured lovingly and I smiled but was not given a chance to respond because in that instant the moment was lost and he sat up suddenly, as if pricked by a needle, clutching his papers to his chest and his eyes wide and fearful as he glanced around the ward, settling only when he realised that, aside from one or two nurses, we were alone, and unnoticed. 

“Good morning,” I replied quietly, and he smiled at me sheepishly, taking the coffee from Signora De Santis with a mumbled thank you but saying no more until she had left us to prepare Violette’s next dose of morphine.

“Gui Rosey,” he whispered wonderingly, sipping at his coffee quietly as his gaze roamed over my face. “I did not think I would see you again.”

His expression was hungry as his eyes met mine and I felt disarmed and exposed in the heat of such a stare.

“But in your letter-”

“I told you not to come.”

“But I-”

“Needed to. I know,” he said, and there was a hardness in his voice that was foreign to me and I felt my face begin to burn with shame, looking down at the tray on my lap in order to avoid his judgement.

“And now?” I asked softly, hating myself for the way my voice cracked.

“And now? Now look at us,” he whispered desperately, leaning forward in his chair earnestly. “Good god, Rosey! Look at Violette! Last night I had deal with her delirium when she woke in the night, sick with pain because her arm had been so badly wounded, infected, that it was amputated! What happened, Rosey? What happened to her? To you? And what ha- Rosey look at me!” 

I looked up reluctantly, hating the pain that I saw in his eyes, a rage barely restrained, but did not lower my eyes as he continued to speak in a vicious mutter.

“What happened to her?” he begged. “And where is Jana? Rosey, what has become of you all?”

“What has become of us?” I repeated accusingly. “You left us. With no goodbye, no clue as to your whereabouts. We feared for your mental stability,” I hissed at him. “Only to discover that you are fine and well, leading a god-forsaken rebellion in the middle of a war!”

He opened his mouth to retort but closed it again, his lips pursing as he thought over my words for a long, somber moment.

“You are right, I did,” he said in a voice so low I could barely hear it. “I left without offering a goodbye, because I did not want you to follow me. And when I did leave my mind was, it is true... quite unstable. I ended up in Milan almost by accident. I... I am sorry, Rosey. I am sorry,” he breathed, shoulders slumping. “But please,” he begged me, his voice raw and the tears threatening to spill over from his tired eyes. “What happened? Please? Why is Jana not with you?” 

It took my brain a beat before the truth of his fear sunk in, and why he should be asking after Jana, until I realised that the letter he had received had been from the three of us and that he had no idea that Jana had not started the journey with us. Given the state Violette was in his fear was understandable, for for all he knew Jana had died in the attack that had left Violette so badly injured, but in that at least I could give him some peace.

“She chose to remain behind,” I told him simply. “As far as I know she is still in Paris.”

I saw relief flit across his eyes but it was short lived. He put his papers down carefully on the floor and brought his chair as close to the bed as he could manage, holding his coffee so tightly in his hands that his knuckles became white and skeletal, a reflection of the man before me.

“Paris has been taken, Rosey. I feared for you all when... but did not dream that you would actually attempt to come here, and now...”

He hid his face in his mug once more and I could see how difficult he was finding it to remain composed when faced with such emotions - and with my presence - and so I drank the last of my own tea so that I did not need to respond, waiting instead for him to continue.

“Why would she stay behind?” he asked eventually, and at first I merely shrugged my shoulders, until I saw the deep scowl on his face and relented.

“She said that the younger girls needed to be protected. That she had survived one war already and that she was needed there. Violette tried to persuade her but...”

I glanced up at him again, taking in the deep lines in his forehead, the frown, the worry, the hardness that had grown to cover the vulnerability which I used to be able to read so easily in his expression. He was greatly altered, in face and manner, but he was still also my dear Bauer, and as angry as the words had been between us that morning I still felt drawn to bring a smile to him, to see the anxiety and stress fade from his countenance. 

“Were you aware-” he glanced up at my hesitation, and I smiled and continued. “Were you aware that they- that Violette and Jana were-”

“-madly in love with each other?” he said in a sudden rush of air. “Have they finally admitted it? Oh, but Rosey I have suspected them of being deeply and passionately in love for so long! Yet they denied it to themselves (and to me) which was not healthy for either of them and...”

The grin that had appeared on his face at hearing the news fell as suddenly as it had come as he looked over his shoulder to where Violette lay.

“What is it?” I prompted, but he shook his head, and the tears were back in his lashes, threatening to fall if he was not more careful.

“But that only makes this all the more horrible. To finally realise their love for one anther, and then to part, and then for Violette to be...”

“Hurt,” I offered as he struggled for the word.

“Yes, hurt... Oh god, Rosey, what have I done?”

“It shall be alright,” I told him, raising my voice as he snorted his disbelief. “We will write to Jana and tell her we have arrived. Violette had planned to do so in any case - Jana taught her to write, you know, and to speak Italian - and we will sort everything out. It will be alright. You and I...” I paused until he looked back into my eyes, pale blue-green meeting watery brown, before continuing. “We shall be alright. I am glad that I have found you. I am glad that you are well. I regret much of what has happened but not the fact that I am now here with you. I missed you, Victor.”

He blinked and a tear began to roll down his cheek, but he did not let it get far, wiping it harshly with the back of his hand and sniffing in the manner which he always used to, when he would attempt to cover his true emotions with obnoxious noise and distracting movements. He slurped noisily at his coffee, which confirmed my suspicion, and I held out my hand to him, rejoicing as he took it, our palms meeting and seeming to fit together so perfectly, even after such a time apart. Our hands were both rougher than the last time they had met and I wondered at the new callouses that had formed on his palm, trying to guess at their cause, until he squeezed my hand in a way that was so familiar that my chest began to ache. 

I. love. you. - 

I responded in kind, watching him bite his lip to keep his emotions in check even as the tears streamed unhindered down my own face. 

“Will you stay?” he asked eventually, and his voice sounded so fragile, so young, and so very at odds with the tone I had heard from him that morning, that it caught me off guard, but I answered him as quickly as I could, not wishing to leave the question unanswered when it was asked with such need.

“Of course.”

“And I-”

“-will be what you need to be. As always.”

“A liar?”

“An artist.”

He snorted at that but I held his hand tightly in mine so that he could not pull away.

“Hardly that anymore, just-”

“A leader?”

“Barely.”

“A genius?”

He scoffed again, but a small smile had crept onto his lips so that he seemed but a young man, bashful and uncertain and innocent.

“Hardly that,” he told me softly, and I could sense the bitterness beneath the words, his inability to believe his worth, even when there were hundreds who believed in him and had accepted him as their leader so quickly and willingly.

“Very well then,” I whispered. “Then how about the one who brings out the genius in others, the courage, the spirit? You are that man, Victor, whatever character you play. And you are the man I love, whatever persona you choose. Always.”

He closed his eyes tightly, pained at my words, but eventually, when he opened them again, the love was clear and obvious, though tinged with pain, and I attempted to return it, desperate for him to know that I would support him, and change my plans and desires for his sake.

He stayed with me for the whole morning though we had no further chance to speak privately. Men and women came to report to him and I saw in each the curiosity as they tried not to stare at me, or at Violette, as they gave their reports and took their orders. Violette woke, once, fevered and distressed, and Victor sat on her bed, stroking her cheek and comforting her, telling her that all would be well, that he would write to Jana, that her hair would grow back in time, that she was safe and recovering.

“I do not want it back,” Violette slurred to him, and for a moment we were both confused until I realised that she spoke of her hair, and not her hand. “It is better shorter, is it not?”

“Yes,” Victor agreed, running his fingers through the short strands. “Very pretty. It suits you. I only wish shorter hair looked as good on me.”

He smiled sadly and touched his own hair and I wondered how painful it must have been to cut away that part of himself, that symbol of who he had once been. He continued to speak to her softly until the morphine took effect and she faded back into unconsciousness and, when he stood, sighing heavily and stretching his back, I longed to hold him and reassure him. Instead I stayed in my bed and nodded encouragingly when he informed me that he was needed above ground that afternoon, and that he would return in the evening to check on me.

“It is alright, Victor,” I told him, trying to seem hale even as my heart yearned to have him stay with me and ignore the whole world in favour of me. “You have a job, go and do it. I am not going anywhere.”

He nodded and then, to my surprise, bent to hug me, holding me delicately as if fearing that I would break if he embraced me too tightly. 

“I can believe that,” he said as he straightened. “For I have seen the state of your feet. But when they are better healed, Rosey, I...” he hesitated, casting a glance around the room to ensure we were not overheard. “...that is, if you agree... there is a second bed in my room, and...”

“Then I shall do everything within my power to recover,” I told him fiercely and was rewarded with a smile so full of delight and love that I very nearly cried again. 

When he was gone I ate the food that was brought to me and settled down to rest. My body was still horribly weak and within minutes of laying back against my pillows I found myself slipping back into sleep. There was an aching sadness within me, a mourning for the changes in the man I loved, in the separation between us, of secrets built up which we had not been able, as yet, to share. I mourned too for Violette, at all she had still to endure, at how frail she seemed, at the pain she was in. And I worried for Jana, who did not know what had become of us, and who was, at that moment, living in a city overtaken by the enemy, for Paris had fallen, was a jewel in Hitler’s crown, which he flaunted shamelessly. Yet despite all of this my body refused to remain awake, and I slept, waking only when Victor returned that evening, the hard mask of the General back in place on his face, his eyes cold and focused, to inform me of the mission he had planned for that night.


	29. Chapter 29

I had believed, naively, that because he seemed to be the one in charge of the planning and organising of various Resistance actions, that he did not in fact take part in any of the more high risk operations, or perhaps I had simply hoped. However, that evening my Bauer stood before me in boots and soldiers garb, with a pistol at his hip, and I realised that he had changed more than I had imagined. And that he had no qualms about putting himself in harms way. It was his intention that night to remove the bodies from the gallows where they were still displayed, so that they could be returned to their families for burial. 

It seemed an odd venture, a strange thing to risk ones life for, but Victor was adamant that it was important, that it restored humanity to the city and undermined the fear the government sought to smother the people in. He told me this in a voice that allowed for no argument, informing me of the facts only so that I would not be ignorant of his whereabouts, not so that I might attempt to argue against him, and I accepted the information silently, trying my best to seem in control of my emotions, to allow him to act out the role of General that the other members of the Resistance needed him to play. He had, I realised later, come to me at that time so that I could see him as he now was, so that I could accept him, if I was able, and so that I would understand what it truly meant to stay. 

Adriano was with him, his second in command, and I bid them both farewell with a salute, for it seemed fitting, and did not see either of them until the early hours of the morning, when they returned to the ward with one of their group who had been injured, laying him out on a bed at the far end of the room, where the younger of the two doctors, Lucia De Santis, removed barbed wire from the man’s leg, the three of them speaking in low tones about the success of their mission to liberate the corpses.

Victor spared me only a single glance before leaving again and I tried to satisfy myself with that, with seeing that he was safe, knowing that he likely had much still to do and that a great deal was expected of him. He was back at my bedside when I next woke, writing a letter with great care, his tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he attempted to make his words legible and to keep ink from splattering across the page, but he did not stay long, making the excuse that he had other correspondence to attend to, and did not return again that day, or the next, though when I awoke each morning there were traces of him - empty coffee cups and ink spots on the sheets that hinted at his attendance at my bedside while I slept. I tried to keep my mind occupied with ensuring that Violette was recovering well, attending to the nurses as they changed her bandages, enquiring after every needle and making mental notes of her temperature and what I could garner from the nurses’ faces and reactions. Violette’s periods of wakefulness grew longer as the days passed and eventually, at the end of a week, she was able to sit up in bed to eat, though the pain was still very evident upon her face. 

By that time I was able to sit in the chair beside her, rather than in bed, and when Signora De Santis arrived on the ward with trousers and a shirt for me to wear instead of the patient’s gown that I had been in since our arrival I stood and hugged her tightly, enjoying the way she chuckled and admonished me affectionately. She was very much a mother to the younger members of the Resistance, for there were not many over the age of forty in their number, and I realised that I was one of the oldest among them, certainly the oldest man, and that I should probably behave in a manner befitting my elderly status, but could not help my childish grin at being allowed to dress, and the possible freedom that clothing would give me. 

It felt good to be properly attired and, though my feet still pained me, I donned the shoes that were brought to me, feeling so much more like myself, so much better in body and soul, simply for looking less like an invalid. I showed off my new garments for Violette, who smiled at me weakly and called me handsome, her voice gently mocking. I leant down to hug her and she returned it as best she was able, scoffing at herself when she attempted to wrap an arm around me, only to recall, through the sharp stab of pain, that the arm was no longer there. I pulled away, an apology already upon my lips, but her expression would not allow it. She simply rolled her eyes at herself and went back to the task of eating her food using her left hand. 

“Are you going to see Victor, then?” she asked me when I had resumed my seat by her side, still rejoicing over the ease with which I could sit now that I was not constantly anxious about the hospital gown.

She asked the question lightly but it still brought a level of panic to my mind, and I shrugged my shoulders noncommittally until she sighed at me and demanded a proper answer. 

“He has barely come to see us since we have been here,” I told her, looking down at the brown shoes I had been given, old and battered but well worn and soft, too embarrassed to look my friend in the eye. “He is busy and... I do not wish to be a burden upon him, when he has fallen on his feat so neatly.”

“Oh, Gui,” Violette sighed and I looked up to see her attempt to fold her arms as she had used to do, changing her movements at the last moment to bring her hand up to clasp her shoulder instead. “Do not tell me that you think you are not needed?”

I shrugged again but could not deny her words.

“Has he ever needed me? Really?”

“You great, bull-headed fool, of course he needs you,” she admonished me, and from across the room I heard one of the nurses give a snort of laughter as she heard the statement, glancing at us both with a smile and a nod, though whether she agreed that Bauer needed me or simply that I was a fool I do not know. 

“But-” I attempted weakly, but Violette was in no mood for my insecurities.

“But nothing. He has been here every night, I have seen him. And if the fact that he scurries away and buries himself in his work each day is not proof that he needs you, then I do not know what is. He needs some normalcy, something to ground him, someone who truly understands him, Gui. He needs you. It is the reason we came all this way: because he always needs you, and you always need him. It is the truth of you both and you know it. Do not tell me that this journey was for nothing and that now that we are here you two will avoid one another and hide behind curtains to escape the awkwardness of greeting each other again.”   
Though her voice was low and contained I could hear the anger in it, could see it vibrating through her, and did not dare to argue. For she had spent that week coming to terms with the loss of her arm, with pain both physical and mental, with the frustration that came with doing even the most basic things with only one hand. And she had coped. There had been tears, desperate, frightened sobbing that she could not contain, especially when she first became aware of what had happened. And there had been anger at herself when she tried to pick up her spoon only to realise that there was no hand and no arm to complete the movement - yet she had coped, because she had no choice and no other option.

And none of it would have happened if she had not decided to chaperone me on my journey. None of the the pain and misery and grieving if I had been a more courageous man. I could not deny her anything, especially the request to seek out Bauer in order that I might try and talk to him. For she was right, it was the reason for our coming after all, though I now feared that we had been greatly mistaken in our belief that he needed us. And so I promised her that I would do what I could to find him and talk to him and, though she rolled her eyes and seemed rather reluctant to believe me, she let the matter drop, insisting instead that I make myself useful and find her some paper and a pen. 

“But...” I stuttered, realising that the words I had been about to utter may have been horribly tactless. 

“But my hand?” she finished for me, and my sheepishness was confirmation that I had been about to put the question to her.

“Yes.”

“Do you know that Jana thought it most uncouth that I was more capable with my left hand than my right? I eat - used to eat - with my right hand, because I was taught to do so, but I always formed my letters with my left, in the short time that I was educated in such things. I am sure she shall be able to see the humour, dark though it is, in the fact that her attempts to teach me to write with my right hand failed - ” and then she smiled. “She allowed me to learn with my left only after a rather fierce argument, in which I pouted most terribly, and which, she told me later, was part of the reason that she chose that moment to kiss me for the first time. For I was so cross, and my lower lip pushed so far forward in my displeasure, that she could not resist, so she says. And so I write with my left hand, for I am going to hell anyway, surely, and what is one more, superficial, sin?”

Her tone was sardonic as she spoke, yet proud as well as she recalled such potent memories, and I smiled at her, relieved and rejoicing that she would at least be able to write to her beloved as she had promised.

“I must go and fetch you something to write with then,” I told her and she nodded condescendingly, waving her fingers at me in dismissal as I headed toward the nurse’s station by the corridor. 

Senore De Santis, when I asked her, gave me a peculiar look before informing me that she had nothing appropriate for letter writing. She instead gave me directions through the warren of cellars and tunnels that made up the Resistance headquarters, to the main centre of operations. There, she told me, I would find what I needed. I followed her directions gormlessly until I did indeed find myself in another large room, a cellar that had been converted into something resembling a war room. There were maps on the walls, desks and typewriters in neat rows along it’s length, filing cabinets, a meeting table and, tucked in the far corner, a space made to resemble an office - a desk with two chairs, a small bookcase to partially separate it from the main room, a filing cabinet, a painting on the wall - and there, leaning against the desk, was Bauer.

My heart jumped rather dramatically at the sight of him. He was dressed quite simply in a shirt and trousers, similar to my own garb, but with the sleeves rolled up and the first few buttons left undone. He was discussing something with Adriano, speaking with animation and passion as they both pointed at the small map between them and I was reminded sharply of the first time I had glimpsed him, for he had been speaking with great animation then as well, dressed in clothing which did its best to smother him and yet could not hide his beauty. 

I watched from the doorway as a young woman approached with paperwork in need of his signature and noted that, though he was sparing in his words and gave her little more than a quick smile and nod, she beamed at him with devotion. I was not alone, it seemed, in being drawn to him, like a moth to a candle, and I continued to study him, noting that every member of that office behaved in a similar manner, treating him with respect for his intelligence and strategical knowledge, and entrapped by his charisma. It seemed right somehow, appropriate. This was the adulation he deserved and had never received, the acknowledgement of his intelligence that he should have been given from the start, and I could not help but feel pleased that he was finally surrounded by those who saw just how special he was.

Eventually Adriano left, apparently acquiescing to Victor’s point of view, and I darted toward the opposite corner of the room in order to avoid their notice, to what appeared to be a store cupboard, and asked the man nearest me whether I might borrow paper, pen and envelope for my friend. I was prepared for his suspicion but not for him to startle so greatly at the sight of me. He turned to look at the painting that hung over Bauer’s desk and then back to me, and then again to the painting, his expression comical in its confusion, and finally handed over the stationary without a word. I thanked him and then made to exit the room but could not stop myself from looking at the portrait that hung on the far wall, for I knew it was the one of me, created by Victor, from memory, after his arrival in Milan.

He had been kind but not overly flattering in his portrayal of my features, and yet had captured great emotion in the piece, for I was smiling, on the edge of laughter, and could only assume that it had been he who, in the memory which inspired the likeness, had produced such an expression of amusement and affection from me. For who else in the world could make me smile in such a way? I certainly had never been conscious of doing so, would rarely have felt comfortable in displaying myself so in public. And so it was easy to imagine a day back in our small room in Paris, he at his easel whilst I reclined in the arm chair, a debate raging between us that he might have ended with some joke or sharp observation which in turn made me laugh. He had somehow, despite my lack of general attractiveness, made me look beautiful, and it made my heart ache. 

I went to turn away but he looked up, as if sensing my presence, and his face softened. It was almost imperceptible, a tiny shift in the set of his jaw, the tilt of his head, before he seemed to come to a decision and strode across the office to me. I do not know what I was expecting but a hug was certainly not it, nor the kisses pressed to my cheeks, and it took me a moment to realise that such behaviour was quite normal in Italy, and when I looked down at him, once he had released me, there was mischief and fire in his eyes.

“I had not expected to see you here so soon,” he told me, but I feigned seriousness in the face of his brash tone.

“I hear there is much to be done. I have a way with words. I have experience. I offer my services.”

I do not know where those words came from, I certainly had not been meaning to say them, to utter such things, but as was so often the way with Bauer, the right words came when I needed them, or rather, when he needed them. 

“We shall need to get you a desk,” he replied somberly but I could not maintain a straight face any longer and a breath of laughter escaped my nose which he echoed, clapping his hands to my shoulders. “Welcome to the cause. Welcome Signor Rosa!” he repeated in Italian, raising his voice to be heard by all, before returning to a whisper to add, “it is good to have you with us.”

I was wholeheartedly welcomed by the rest of the central command unit, many of whom had heard of my arrival, some of whom I recognised vaguely from when they had visited my bedside to report to Victor, but most whose faces were new and whose names I feared I would never remember. My Italian was still not of a very high standard (though I had improved through conversation with my nurses) and I realised that if I were to be truly useful I would need to become fluent, both in speech and writing, and that there was a rather high expectation of me, for if their General had such faith in my abilities, then surely I would not disappoint.

I was saved from my fear however, because Bauer already had plans for me and pulled me over to sit at his desk, sitting opposite me and placing a map between us.

“I am glad that you have come just now,” he told me excitedly. “For we have received a correspondence from the White Patrol in the mountains and I would be interested to know what path you took through the Alps, for you did not encounter them at all, did you?”

I shook my head, trying to focus of his face and his words as my mind inexplicably began to drift.

“We saw no one. What do you need to know?”

And so we passed at least an hour talking through the route Violette and I had taken through the mountains. I no longer had the map that we had used to guide us but remembered the names of the last villages we had passed before heading into the mountains, and that we had followed certain valleys in order to avoid unnecessary climbing. Knowing that we had emerged near Susa also helped us to put together an estimated path and I struggled to give as much detail as I could, buoyed by Victor’s encouragement, and his smile, trying to ignore the growing haziness behind my eyes. He wished to know everything, how long it had taken us, how we had fared, whether we had seen any sign of hostile activity in or around the Alps, whether there had been other travelers or refugees, and I realised that he was totally ensconced within that world, in the world of war and resistance and fighting for freedom. It should not have surprised me, not really, for politics had always been his passion, he had learnt socialist ideals along with his letters and nursery stories, and had been connected with this particular movement for some years - not to mention the fact that I had seen him, only a a few days pervious, dressed and prepared for a raid upon government property - this was his world, and yet I still suffered a moment of revelation that he was not simply playing at soldiers, or speaking hypothetically about ideologies and philosophies - this was his life.

“Are you alright?” he asked me after a time, for I had been silent, my mind spiraling as I began to understand how greatly he had changed.

“Fine,” I whispered, but he clearly did not believe me. 

He made a gesture with his hand and water was brought for me, and I drank deeply, buying myself time to analyse how I felt, and what I was seeing. For the greatest revelation was not that he seemed harder, or older, more mature or cynical, but that the shadow of fear had lifted from his shoulders. I had grown so used to it, to his fear of being discovered, of the perpetual misery of living a life of such secrecy and shame, that I had ceased to see it as anything but a part of him. Yet here he was, his shoulders straight and his voice firm. He was tired, that I could see, and slightly ragged around the edges perhaps, but he was... inherently happy with and of himself. He was no longer my frantic, strange, little artist, but he was confident, and happy.  
I finished my water and attempted to smile at him, hating myself for not feeling more encouraged by something so positive, and not understanding my own sudden melancholy.

“Why did you wish to know so much?” I asked him, attempting to distract him, though I am sure he suspected me.

“Mostly because I wanted to know what happened to you on your journey,” he admitted with a shrug, flashing a quick grin before becoming serious once more. “I do not like not knowing everything about you. But also because the letter we received this morning tells of a man-hunt in the mountains, and of more stringent security and military presence in the area around Susa. A soldier was found assassinated there and the Fascist forces suspect us, yet we were not aware of the matter. The Patrol wish to know where and how and who might be coming through the mountains, and how to get to them before the army does.”

I nodded, clamping my mouth shut against the hysterical laughter that had suddenly built up within me for there was nothing even remotely funny about what he had said, but I could not stop my body from shaking, nor the sweat which immediately appeared on my brow at his words. At the reminder of what I had done, what I was. What I am. Victor was immediately aware of my distress, lowering his voice to whisper to me, urging me to breathe, to calm myself, to tell him what was wrong, but I could not do it, could not draw back from the sudden influx of memories and images of that night, and the sight of the man’s face, his limp and heavy body, of touching his skin even as it cooled, of dragging him and hiding his body beneath the straw. Even the smell of that night seemed to surround me - the scent of blood and death and sweat - and my gorge rose, though I still refused to open my mouth, forcing the bile back down my throat, though it made me want to shriek and vomit all the more.

“Come, Rosey,” Victor urged me, speaking in a low and soothing tone, suddenly close beside me, as he began to pull at my arm, trying to convince me to stand. “You have overexerted yourself. Come with me, please.”

But as I stood the room began to spin and I could not keep my balance, and so fell, the world losing it’s light as I did so, until I fell from consciousness, and back into my nightmares.


	30. Chapter 30

I awoke back in my bed in the makeshift hospital, blinking groggily at the rough ceiling and trying desperately to remember what had happened, what had led to my being back there. I looked to the side, trying to keep my movements to a minimum, that I might go unnoticed for just a few minutes, and saw from the corner of my eye that Violette was sitting up in her bed, writing her letter to Jana, shaping her letters slowly and with great care, and that, sitting haphazardly in the chair which had been pushed to the foot of my bed, was Victor. He was picking at his finger nails and frowning quite severely and looked ver much like he had been soundly told off. 

I found out later that he had indeed been given a stern talking to by Violette who had been furious to learn that he had kept me talking about our journey when he should have realised that it had not been pleasant. She had admonished him for being thoughtless and carried away in his plots and plans and for neglecting me. She had brought him nearly to tears, I am told, for pointing out that his behaviour seemed callous, and that he owed us both an explanation for his actions. But when I first saw him there, as my eyes cleared and I realised that I must have fainted, all I could seem to focus on was the red blister on his finger tip.

“Are you alright?” I croaked, causing his head to jolt upward in surprise. “What did you do to your finger?”

He blushed violently at that, glancing first at Violette who grinned at him, before looking back at me with his lips parted and a look of distress and embarrassment on his face. 

“I am fine,” he said softly. “We brought you back here after you... fainted, and I thought to make myself a coffee, but...”

“-but burnt yourself?” I asked, and he nodded.

“It was not my fault. The Signora happened upon me in the kitchen and yelled at me for wearing you out. I would not have burnt myself otherwise.”

I snorted at that, and felt ridiculously pleased that at least some small part of him had not changed, for he would hardly have been my Victor if he had learnt to make himself a pot of coffee without burning at least one of his fingers, but he gave me a sharp look in return.

“What?” I enquired, but he continued to scrutinize me before a slow grin began to spread across his face. 

“You have been here only a week and already she loves you more than me. It is good to know that your magic still works, Rosey, for I have known few others who could make themselves so adored and admired with so little effort.”

It was my turn to frown, though I could not help the eventual upward twitching of my lips in response to his smile, for it was as contagious as ever.

“I believe you are getting us confused,” I told him. “It is you and not me who has the power to make others fall in love with you. I saw it earlier today, those people would do anything for you, would follow you to hell and back.”

His smile, which had been growing as I spoke, suddenly dropped from his face at those words.

“People follow me to hell, that is true. But whether I can bring them back again... that I do not know.”

“I would.”

The words were out of my mouth before I had even thought them and, though they were barely more than a whisper, he heard them, and his eyes filled once more with pain.

“I know, Rosey. I know. And look how far I have led you. When I was first informed that you were here, you and Violette, do you know what my first thought was?”

The hard edge was back in his voice, his face tilted down and away so that it appeared to be made up of a series of sharp angles and planes, an indecipherable alien landscape and I shook my head in answer to his question, wishing that I knew how to read this new Bauer as I had so easily read the old one.

“I thought to scold you and send you back again. But you would not get so far as the border now, let alone Paris. So then, I thought - as I rushed to the hospital, having been told that you were both in need of urgent medical care - that I would organise for you to go to a safe house somewhere, away from the fighting, and away from me. But then I saw you...”

His voice cracked and he looked back at Violette, who had ceased her letter writing to give him her full attention. His mouth was still moving but there was no sound, only the motion of his jaw as he struggled to maintain a semblance of calm.

“I realised that I could not send you away. Either of you. And so I thought I could use you... make you useful... find a use for you...” he sighed deeply. “There is no way to say what I mean without sounding like as much of a dictator as the men I speak against.”

He ran a hand distractedly through his hair, his hand slipping down to his bare neck and startling him, and my heart jumped in sympathy for him as he blinked in surprise, rubbing his hand against his nape as he attempted to gather his thoughts. Violette and I watched him silently as he scowled, neither of us wishing to release him from his discomfort too soon. 

“It is not simply that I did not wish you around. I did not wish you to be in danger... But if you are to stay here, part of the Resistance, you need to be useful. I need to...”

“-find us jobs?” I offered gently and he looked down at his hands with another frown. 

“I am... in charge, you see. And I do quite enjoy it. It...” he took a moment to consider his words. “It suits me, I suppose. And I cannot simply leave my duties in order to sit here with you both, I cannot simply allow you to live here and use Resistance resources without contributing - if you can.” He sighed again. “And I was excited and relieved when you appeared before me today, Rosey, that you seemed to have read my mind, known what I needed, that you would offer yourself as a volunteer for the cause... And I wanted to prove to the others that you were worth the time I had been away from my desk, because I know that I have been so distracted... and I forgot myself, Rosey, I am sorry.”

I hated to see him doubt himself, for he had been so confident and sure of himself when I had happened upon him in the war room, and I hated that his confidence had slipped because of my presence. I informed him that he was entirely forgiven, and that I was relieved to hear that he even desired my presence. We sat in silence, a slightly awkward, but quietly happy silence, until Violette let out a dramatic sigh at the pair of us. 

“Well, would you look at that,” she said loudly, making us both jump and look down sheepishly. “My dinner has arrived. Victor, I have been reliably informed that you have no covert activities planned for tonight and it seems that no food has been brought for Rosey. I strongly suggest you take him upstairs and find him something to eat. And perhaps you could settle him into his new room. I assume that is still the intention, is it not?” here she waited just long enough for a blush to rise in both our cheeks before continuing. “If I can do nothing else at least I can be useful in reminding you two when to eat and sleep.”

And so we did as we were told, excusing ourselves from her presence and making our way slowly up the winding stairs to the De Santis home where Victor lived, too timid to talk. Victor carried my case for me, the battered, stained thing that was all I had left of my former life, and he swung it easily at his side, for there was little left in it, except, I realised, one special, prized item - one thing that I had kept carefully wrapped and had been unwilling to part with, even though it had served no purpose on our journey. As I remembered what was tucked within the case, the case which Victor himself held in his hand, I felt a new energy begin to fill me, poured in like champagne into a thin flute and threatening to bubble over at any moment, and I grinned dizzily as Victor led me through to the kitchen.

Maria was sitting at the table, a bowl of pasta before her which she seemed to be eating whilst half-asleep, blinking blearily at us as we entered, and I faltered, not wishing to interrupt, but Victor sauntered forward and placed a kiss to the young woman’s forehead, to which she gave a snort of laughter through her nose, and we sat down to eat with her, learning that her sister and mother were working on the ward that night, whilst she had been given leave to sleep, having spent the last day and night visiting those who, for some reason or another, could not come to see her.

“You work very hard,” I pointed out rather obviously, but she simply smiled at me, her dark eyes showing amusement and weariness in equal measure.

“Most of the male doctors have been taken for the army. They did not want us. Lucia and I. But that is to be preferred I think. I hate to imagine my father’s face if we had been conscripted.”

“I don’t believe I have met your father, Signorina,” I said before realising that Victor, seated across from me, had widened his eyes in panic and was attempting to shake his head without Maria seeing him. 

She turned her head however, and caught him at it, shaking her head mockingly before turning back to me, her expression now both weary and heartbreakingly sad.

“He died, signor Rosa. He was captured. And tortured. But he did not give up our location or the names of those involved in the Resistance. He died honorably, not matter what those beasts did to him. We would have lost him sooner if it had not been for Bauer. And then his first act as our new general was to bring my father’s body home to us. We owe a great deal to him. We all do.”

Victor had looked away at this, his face carefully impassive - schooled to seriousness with a mastery I had not seen even when we had been walking out as a performance piece in Paris - but in his eyes I could see a spark, and felt that his own telling of the story would differ significantly if I ever worked up the courage to ask for it. But it was not the appropriate time, so instead I made my apologies to Maria for being so thoughtless in asking her about her father, and thanked her for all she had done for Violette.

“You do not need to apologise, I brought it up, and though we still grieve him, the true grieving must wait, for who can properly grieve in the middle of a war? It is not possible, for death is everywhere, the scale of it overwhelming. If I were to grieve for every friend and family member who I had lost to this tyranny I would drown in it.”

There was a hard note to her voice as she spoke those words, as if there were a message specifically for me that she wished to be heard, and so I nodded, hoping she would take it as understanding, before returning my eyes to my meal as she continued.

“You are welcome too. I feel I can say to you now that things were far from straight forward with your Violette. We were not sure, when we made the first incision, whether we would be able to save the humerus, the upper arm, but we managed it. I fear she may overdo things, however, in her desire for recovery. Please tell her to be gentle with herself. She will recover better if she is kinder to her own body.”

This was directed at both Victor and myself, and so we both nodded vigorously, and soon after she left us to find her bed, her eyes already drooping until I feared that she would trip on the stairs. And then we were alone again. Victor made himself busy in clearing the dishes and washing them, his gaze down and his shoulders tightening, hunched as if fearing an attack of some kind, and it hurt to think that I was the source of his mental discomfort, yet I struggled to think of a way to relieve his anxiety. When the kitchen was clean he gave me a brief smile and offered me his hand, quite shyly, and when I took it the smile returned, broader than before, and he took up my case once again and led me up the steep and unlit stairs.

His room was at the very top of the building and took up most of that floor and, when I entered, I could not suppress the breathy laughter which escaped my mouth. For I had seen so many changes in him, most for the better but some which worried me, and I had thought that the manic artist who I had once known was all but gone, until I walked into the room which should have been quite spacious had it not been filled with books and crates of miscellaneous items and sheet upon sheet of paper, filled with sketches both realistic and abstract. He seemed to have lacked canvases or paper that would take paint and water and so had turned to the walls, decorating them with strange shapes, some colourful, some dark and threatening but all brilliant to behold and my heartbeat quickened at the sight of them, and the room which my Bauer had made so firmly his, as he always seemed to do.

There were indeed two beds in the room, a single and a double, though the single was covered in maps, sketches, typed pages and folders of notes in Bauer’s messy handwriting, and I stared pointedly at the mess in an attempt to lead Victor into a conversation about what he wished our sleeping arrangements to be, but he missed the gesture entirely for he was not looking at me, or at the bed, or the walls, but at his feet, his brow drawn downward in a manner that I knew meant that he was feeling both embarrassed and defensive. He had been the same the first time he dragged me home with him to his apartment in Paris, embarrassed at the state of his living quarters and what I might think when encountering such chaos, except that when once he had been flighty and full of false confidence, at that moment he was still, simply waiting for judgement.

I looked around the room once more, wondering how I could put him at his ease, how I could show him that I still loved him with an intensity that frightened and enlivened me, stronger than even the night we met, when my eyes finally alighted on a crate, filled with bottles of red wine. I marched decisively over to them and picked a bottle, watching as Victor’s eyes twitched upwards at the sound. I walked back to him, slowing my steps so that he knew I meant him no harm and, when I was close enough, pressed the bottle to his chest and leant forward to speak softly in his ear.

“Here. You can do the cork.”

There was a moment of absolute silence before he threw his head back and laughed, holding the wine tightly to his chest and laughing as if he had not done so for some time. I grinned at being able to produce such a reaction, and in knowing that he too still remembered the details of our first encounter, and, when his laughter eventually faded I brought my hand up to the back of his neck, feeling the soft skin beneath my fingers as I had longed to do since seeing him asleep at my bedside, and dipped my head to lay a delicate kiss upon his lips.

He shivered but did not pull away and after a second’s hesitation he tilted his jaw to press his mouth more firmly against mine, though neither of us dared to deepen the kiss. Instead we stood, so still we seemed like statues, barely breathing as our lips rested against one another’s and we slowly readjusted to what it meant to be joined once more. His lips were as soft as I remembered, despite the fact that they so often seemed firm and unyielding when he spoke, and I fancied I could taste the rich tomato sauce on them from his dinner, though in truth we had eaten the same thing, so there was no way to tell the taste of his own lips and mouth from mine. In contrast to the softness of his lips was the slight scratch of the bristles at his lip’s edge, for he had not shaved that day, and seemed rather rakish in appearance, though I was not about to complain.

We ended the kiss as if by mutual agreement and I watched as he took a steadying breath, his eyes closed but his eyelids twitching, causing his lashes to flutter against his cheekbones like delicate moths, making me wish that I could freeze that moment in order to write it out as poetry, to think back on later and remember with as much clarity as was humanly possible. For seeing him, being so close, breathing in his scent and feeling the thrum of his body - so full of nervous energy - had caused the creative spark to flare unexpectedly within my brain, and I wanted desperately to write down how I was feeling and what he made me see and think and imagine, simply by being close to me - by being real once more.

Instead I simply kissed his cheek, which brought another smile to his lips, and he opened his eyes and gazed at me, and I saw the mischief that lay there, beneath the layers of maturity and seriousness and sadness and worry, a mischief which seemed solely reserved for me. He slipped around me to fetch a corkscrew from his bedside table and opened the wine with a flourish, only to look about the room in annoyance when he realised that he did not in fact have any glasses or even coffee cups to hand.  


“Signora Di Santis has been tidying again, I fear,” he muttered but seemed to recover his spirits when he then winked at me and drank directly from the bottle, an act which made me laugh because it was so very reminiscent of the young man he had been.

He passed the wine to me and then sat down heavily on the bed, removing his shoes and socks before lying back and gazing at me.

“I have missed you more than I could possibly describe,” he said huskily and I crossed to him, allowing him to pull me down on to the bed, my body already responding to the drawl of his words, knowing that his slowed speech was a sign of his growing arousal. 

I handed him the bottle and he drank again before holding it to my lips and making me drink, though a good deal dribbled down my lips and chin instead, staining my neck and collar before he released me and shamelessly ran his tongue up the length of my throat. I grabbed his head quite forcefully then, bringing his face up so that I could kiss him again, desperate to feel his mouth against mine, and he did not disappoint. I opened my lips and he obliged by sliding his tongue into my mouth, flicking and teasing and increasing my aching need, until he pulled away suddenly, climbing to his feet and stepping back until he could lean against the wall and simply stare at me.

His chest was heaving and his hair was a mess, some of it sticking out wildly around his ears and the rest falling over his eyes, though it could not hide the heat of his gaze from me and he took another deep swallow from the wine bottle still clutched tight in his hand, as if trying to settle his nerves, before placing if carefully on the floor and beginning to untuck his shirt, his eyes fixed to mine all the while.

I took the hint and started on my own shirt, pulling at the buttons which seemed to have become inexplicably small and unyielding. It was strange to be undressing before him, and to see him once again removing his shirt for me. It felt more like a memory than a present reality, but when he stood before me, bare chested, his eyes turned suddenly downcast, I realised that there were too many changes in both of us for this to be anything other than a fresh and present experience. He seemed broader, though such an illusion may have been due to the fact that without his longer hair his neck and shoulders were more exposed and the line of his body more pronounced, and his muscles were more defined as well. He was lean, wiry even, and slightly hairier perhaps, than he had been when last I saw him, though it is also possible that I had simply forgotten that he had matured beyond the young man of my daydreams and nightmares.

He cocked his hip, just as he had always done, aware of what the sight of his body did to me, his grin a ludicrous mixture of coy and sly as he gazed up at me through his lashes, allowing me to drink in the sight of him that I had missed so desperately. But the sweep of his torso was interrupted by a scar, as if he had been slashed shallowly across the chest, almost from arm pit to hip, and I could not help but stare at it in horror. It had not been noticeable earlier, even though the top buttons of his shirt had been left undone, yet now it stood out stark and violent on his pale skin, coming close to running through his nipple, and I was torn between needing to know what had happened and not wishing to upset him with questions.

“It happened the week after I arrived,” he informed me, speaking plainly and beginning to work at the buttons of his trousers. “It was late at night, I was trying to find somewhere to sleep where I would not be either rained upon or beaten by the police for being a homeless degenerate. I heard a scuffle further down the alleyway and, instead of minding my own business, went to investigate. I saw a man being set upon by two others. The two were dressed in uniform and were being... brutal,” he shivered at the memory before carelessly stepping out of his trousers and throwing them over a chair, leaning against the paint splattered wall wearing nothing but his underthings and a serious expression. “I grabbed a short branch from a wood pile at a nearby door and I... I hit the man closest to me. He went down rather fast. The second had his gun out but the man they had been beating, he wrestled it from him. But I was knocked to the ground in the tousle and the first soldier, the one I had hit, well, he wasn’t unconscious, and he came at me with a blade.” He chewed his lip pensively as the memory played out in his mind but continued the tale with the same casual manner. “We overcame them both, eventually, and the cut was not very deep, though it smarted horribly, Rosey, like you would not believe! But then the man I had helped looked up at me and very nearly had a heart attack, for he thought I was my father. He even called me Otto until I informed him, equally stunned, that I was in fact Victor Bauer, rather than Otto... And that is how I came to meet Signor De Santis, the leader - the former leader - of the Resistance here in Milan.”

I marveled at him. He had saved the man’s life so it was little wonder that he had been accepted so eagerly, yet he spoke of it all so calmly. But in a sudden fit of remembrance it brought to my mind my own encounter with the Italian military, and with a knife in the dark, and suddenly I was struggling for breath once more, the room spinning wildly all around me, my ears filled with the crushing beat of my own pulse, and a sob ripped free of my throat as I fought against the shaking that was fast overtaking me. 

Victor was in front of me in moments, kneeling down in order to look up at me, trying to win my focus, to give me something else to see and think of instead of the demons that swam before my vision. 

“Rosey,” he crooned gently. “Rosey, calm down. Please, my love. Breathe. Breathe for me, my Rosey. Breathe.”

I tried to do as he asked me but struggled and so he stood and maneuvered me into the centre of the bed, his almost naked body hard and strong against my clothed one, but once he had managed to bring my head to the pillow he began the task of removing my clothes, pulling the shirt, trousers and shoes from my body with a skill that did not seem to have suffered through lack of practice. 

He pressed his body against mine, wriggling out of his remaining garments until there was nothing between us and his skin was pressed to mine, and the shock of it, I think, more than anything else, allowed me to first gasp and then begin to take deeper, more even breaths. My heart was still beating frantically, as though it wished to claw its way free from my chest, but the room gradually began to come back in to focus, aided by the sweet, loving kisses that Victor pressed to my shoulder, collar, neck and chest. As my breathing returned to a normal pattern and my heart resumed its usual pace his kisses turned from chaste to needy, traveling up and along my jaw to my ear before coming back down to capture my lips, and I welcomed them with enthusiasm, wrapping my arm around him until I had pulled him over me, forcing him to straddle my hips, which brought forth a groan from the both of us.

“Oh, god, Rosey,” Victor panted against my mouth. “I do not- I do not have any thing- any oil...”

“It does not matter,” I whispered in reply. “It is enough to feel your skin against mine, your body pressed to mine. To know that you are real, and that you are happy to be here with me.”   
“Oh,” he gasped, his voice wavering. “Oh how I have missed you.”

His chest was pressed to mine, our bodies as close as it was possible to be and, as we began to move together, our lips meeting once more, I could not stop the shivers that ran up and down my spine at the feel of his skin and the thrust of his hip bone so sharp against mine and the wet, hot, friction of his member, pressed to my own, making the blood pulse so strongly, until I could hold myself together no longer and gave in to the wave of sensations. As I did so my hands tightened reflexively on his backside and I felt him shudder as his own climax hit him, so intense that I worried he would hurt himself, shaking as he was, and so we rode out our orgasms together, panting and dizzy, satisfied but more importantly, reassured.

He slumped down on top of me when the last waves of pleasure had passed and then rolled down to the bed, landing lazily and bringing his hands up behind his head, his eyes drooping and his smile hazy. He lay beside me for several minutes before sitting up and rearranging the blankets over both of us, extinguishing the candle which was the room’s only light, and settling himself back down against my side, placing one last delicate kiss to my swollen lips.

“There is still a great deal to talk about, Rosey,” he said in a sleepy voice as my eyes slid closed. “But it can perhaps wait until morning. Goodnight my dear one. I love you.”

“And I you,” I mumbled in response, sleep pulling at me with a strength I could not fight. “I love you too, my Bauer.”


	31. Chapter 31

I awoke with a shout, sitting up in bed as if hit by a bolt of electricity, my mind a storm of broken images and emotions, and I blinked blearily as I struggled to clear my head of sleep, the dim candle light too bright for my eyes. I jumped again as a hand was placed on my shoulder, unable to recall where I was or why I was naked until Victor’s voice pierced the fog of my panic and helped me to recall that I was in Milan, in his room, in his bed, and relatively safe.

“Come back to me, Rosey, I am here. I am sorry, my love. Oh my love, I am sorry.”

He was seated in front of me on the bed, one leg tucked underneath him and the other dangling down off the side, dressed in only his trousers and seeming wide awake even though the room was still dark. He had been stroking my face as he spoke but stopped when he saw I was awake, his hand retreating guiltily to his lap, his expression nervous as he looked at me from behind his hair.

“What time is it?” I croaked, and he passed me a carafe of water, which I took gratefully, drinking deeply to soothe my raw throat.

“Nearly three,” he told me simply, running a hand through his hair and pulling a face when it fell straight back down in front of his eyes.

“In the morning?”

“Yes, in the morning, Rosey,” he smiled. “Those curtains are thin. Trust me, you would know if it were afternoon.”

I smiled in return and rested myself back down onto my pillow, watching as he continued to struggle with his disobedient hair which seemed determined to do the opposite of whatever he wished.

“Why did you cut it?” I asked suddenly, and this time it was he who jumped, but he recovered himself quickly, cocking his head to the side in order to look at me without his hair inhibiting his vision.

“It is the fashion,” he said mordantly, but gave a laugh as he continued. “I did not wish to stand out. I am, among other things, a gatherer of suppressed information. I needed to blend in, and so... the hair had to go.”

“As if you could ever blend in,” I teased him gently and his smile widened.

“I know, with a nose like this one and a face so reminiscent of Baba Yaga.”

“That is not what I meant,” I countered, but he did not allow me to correct him, opting instead to kiss me, which I accepted as his surrender to my point, and I kissed him back slowly, that I might be able to feel his lips against mine for longer.

“I am sorry if I woke you,” he mumbled when we parted to draw breath. “I am not used to so much sleep, so went in search of supplies.”

“Supplies?”

“Indeed,” he told me, wriggling away from me so that he could hold aloft the basket he had brought up with him from the kitchen. “I also made us each a hot chocolate. Would you like yours?”

I sat up again and thanked him when he passed me the warm beverage, sipping as I watched him lay out the contents of the basket as if our blanket were a picnic rug. There were a few sugar biscuits, and flat bread, and two small, firm plums, and I ate with an appetite that startled me but seemed to please Victor. I also noted the half-full bottle of olive oil in the basket but chose not to mention it for fear that one or both of us would become too bashful, which would in turn cause a stall in the slow rebuilding of our relationship. So we ate in silence, but comfortably so, and it felt good to be able to enjoy one another’s company so simply, without the need for too many words.

Eventually though, he did speak, as I knew he would, for there was so much between us still to be brought to light.

“Rosey? What happened in Susa?” he asked slowly, cautiously, his lips pursed and eyed fixed upon his empty mug.

“Nothing,” I replied too quickly. “What makes you think we were even in Susa?”

“I am not an idiot, you showed me the path you took over the border. Besides, Violette told me.”

His voice was measured, the tone he used when giving direction and laying out plans, and implied that he was being reasonable and that there should be no argument, yet it made me, for some strange reason, rather cross. 

“Then why ask me? If you know everything already, why ask?”

“Because I think there is something more, something that Violette perhaps does not remember, and because I would like your report, because I value your opinion and observations. I did not mention to Violette that a body had been found at Susa and she did not say what became of her attacker, and now it seems rather obvious that-”

“Don’t!”

The word came out louder than expected, and Victor closed his mouth, though he did not seem cowed. Instead he packed away what was left of the food and settled himself up beside me, leaning against the bed head with a pillow behind him and a serious expression on his face.

“A few hours ago, Rosey, I told you of how I fought off the soldiers intent on murdering Signor De Santis the night I met him. I told you that we bested them, overcame them... How do you suppose we did that? I am not proud that they died at my hand but it happened. And it was not the only time. I do my best to plan and organise our movements to ensure our safety, but incidents still occur and I will not flinch in defending my comrades against the brutality of the police and military. For they would not just kill us, Rosey. They torture. This is a war, Rosey. We do what we must in order to survive.”

He sounded bitter as he spoke, and I turned to look at him, noticing once more the scar across his chest, but also the other, pale marks upon his arms, reminders of dangers he had faced and overcome, of a year in which he had learned to be a soldier, an outlaw, and a wanted man. And a successful one at that. But his revelation shocked me, because he was not a violent man, yet he had killed, and he had done it more than once. And though I know that he only did so in self-defense, that it was not something he sought out, it still causes an unpleasant sensation within my chest - a tightening, churning, burning sensation - and I do not know, even now, how to feel about it.

“How can you be so easy about it?” I asked him, trying not seem that I was judging him, but his head turned sharply and his eyes, when they locked with mine, were filled with fire.

“Easy?” he seethed. “I never said it was easy!”

“Then why do it? Why get so involved?”

“Why?” he seemed stunned that I would ask him such a thing, but I still felt that I needed to know, needed to hear from him why this was so important. Why it had been more important than me. “Surely you know,” he said softly but I shook my head defiantly. “Well... because the choice is either to fight or to sit idly by and let the world be overrun by dictators and darkness. People are being hurt, people are dying. Children are growing up without freedom of thought. They are being controlled by fear and threats and images of violence. And many of them have been so cowed, so brutalized in mind and body that they can no longer even see that they are being controlled.” He sighed at my stubborn expression but took a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. “This was not about you, Rosey. It was never a matter of choosing the cause over you. I told you before that I did not set out with the intention of rejoining the Resistance in any capacity. I had few thoughts at all when I left. I was so frightened, so paranoid, I... I... I was out of my mind. Is that what you wish to hear?” he asked me through gritted teeth, becoming more and more agitated at my lack of response. “Well, it is true that I was not capable of rational thought when I fled Paris, and though I regret it, regret leaving you, regret the way I left you... I do not regret the man I am now. I was so tired, and sick to death, of people pulling at us, manipulating us, trying their absolute hardest to destroy us. Well now I am fighting back. I am doing something for myself and, strange as it may seem, I am happier now than I was in our last months in Paris. But, Rosey... I still love you. I still adore you, utterly, completely. And I am happy that you are here. I am glad that you found me. I am simply very, very bad at expressing it properly.”

“But you did not miss me?”

He sighed and let his head fall back against the bed head, hitting it with more force than he intended, which made him wince, but he answered my question with more calm than I would have done if our situations were reversed.

“I missed you, Rosey. Terribly. Like I expect Violette misses her hand. It was as if I had sheared off part of my own body, or my own soul. It was horrible. I woke up each day sick to my stomach, I was a wreck by the time I reached Italy. I lost all care for myself. I ate grass. I drank from streams and puddles. I worked my way, but for very little and ended up in Milan because I fell asleep in a truck and woke up here. I did not cut my hair or shave my face with any regularity. When I met Signore De Santis I looked positively wild, it is a wonder he saw any resemblance between me and my father. He helped me regain my sanity, he helped me feel safe, and he gave me work to do.”   
I listened to his story with more compassion then, as I realised that his journey had been so similar to my own, but there was one point which still irked my brain. 

“But why would you want to be associated with your father, after all this time? After such heartache?”

He let out another, dark, sigh and rolled his eyes at me.

“It was not intentional. It was simply convenient.” He glared at me then, his hair finally staying put and revealing the creases which had permanently etched themselves into his forehead. “Signor De Santis, and his family, they are not like my father. They are not like Otto.”

“No?” I pushed him, desperate to know that he was truly of sound mind and had not simply been manipulated by yet another parental figure exploiting him for their own personal gain. 

“No. They loved their sons, cherished them, accepted them.” His voice was low and I suspected that I had forced him to relive yet another painful memory.

“What happened?”

He took a deep, shuddering, breath, closing his eyes tightly as he gave up the information. 

“They died. They were murdered. We had a printing press not far from here where we produced pamphlets that gave accurate information about the war and corrected the misinformation that the government has been feeding the people. The building was set alight. When they were inside. The ink was... rather flammable. And when the fire was finally put out it became clear that the doors had been wedged shut from the outside.”

“I am sorry, Victor,” I told him truthfully, but he sniffed and continued.

“Three sons, all taken by the Fascists because they produced pamphlets giving accurate facts about food production and that there was not in fact a famine. This was their room. It was a terrible blow.”

I let the silence build between us again, giving him time to settle his mind, for I could see now that, though he was indeed much more easy within his mind than he had been in Paris, he was still, at his core, achingly fragile.

“And Signora De Santis,” I asked eventually. “She will be at ease with you and I sharing this room? With... us?”

I was expecting him to become even more defensive but instead he grinned at me crookedly. 

“Well, she was accepting enough of her own son,” he told me, a chuckle rattling through his chest at my surprised expression. “The Resistance is home to those who do not fit within the accepted parameters of the Fascist, totalitarian state, Rosey,” he recited to me and my own lips twitched at how familiar his tone was, for I had heard it often enough when we were out at a club and he had drunk enough wine to think that standing on a table to deliver a speech about the evils of fascism was a sensible idea. “Here you will find all those who do not fit in with the model of the ideal family unit, many and varied though we are, we are drawn together by our shared need to survive and fight against a regime that would eradicate us.”

He leaned over and kissed my cheek, light and cheerful, his bristles scratching roughly against my own in a way that felt so comfortable and right that I turned my head to capture his lips with my own. He laughed into my mouth, kissing me hard before pulling back, dragging his fingers through his hair yet again.

“Besides,” he told me taking up the carafe of water and drinking deeply before continuing. “Being... being homosexual... is not actually, technically, illegal here.”

“What?”

He shrugged, poking his tongue just past his teeth as he smiled.

“It is true. It has not been a crime under the penal code for a good fifty years, despite the attempts by Mussolini to make it so. It is considered a moral issue rather than a criminal one and, though it is greatly frowned upon - there are plenty of people who would beat you bloody for being a ‘pervert’ and more who would seek to secure you in solitary confinement - it is not actually a criminal offense. The Fascists would prefer to deny its existence than to condemn it publicly, for to make a point of outlawing it or frowning upon it would be to suggest that their model for the ‘New Italian Man’ was not as successful as they would like to pretend. They say that it is only nasty foreigners who are homosexuals - which is quite true in this case I suppose - and do not wish to imply that so many Italian men would be so ‘unnatural’ as to require a law against it,” he snorted derisively. “They are obsessed with virility and the myth of the heroic Italian and most of their hatred is aimed at the idea of what they think a homosexual is - weak and effeminate and a sexual deviant - in the same way that they hate women who appear in any way masculine - by wearing trousers and speaking in public... I still have every intention of being discrete mind you, but we are safe here, in the Resistance. We are among allies. And in my heart, inside myself, there is not the same level of fear and, well, intense self-loathing, that there once was.”

 

I sat, rather stunned, as what he had told me sunk in. I could understand now, why he seemed so much more comfortable in his new environment. He was not being blackmailed, nor was he being shamed for who he was and, though there was great danger in his lifestyle, he was not in constant fear in the same way that he had been before. He leaned across me then and snatched up a battered packet of cigarettes, lighting one with a rather flamboyant gesture and taking a deep drag before offering it to me. When I reached for it, however he held it up, just out of my grasp, and quirked his eyebrow at me. 

“We liberated these. You should know that, before you take it. The government controls the production and sale of all tobacco products, the funds go to the military. So we liberate them, and sell them cheap, to buy food for those who cannot afford the intense taxes that have been placed on every single thing in the city.”

I sat forward and grabbed the cigarette from him, inhaling deeply, addicted to the smiles he was giving me. It felt so good to see him so free and at ease, and his posture, sitting so with his knees up and his head back against the bed, put me in mind of the way he would sit against the stone wall at the beach in Nice. And then I remembered the gift that I had brought him.

“I have something for you,” I said as I passed the cigarette back to him and I saw his eyes brighten at the prospect of a gift, wide and excited and so full of wit and magic.

I rolled from the bed and down to my knees, trying not to groan too audibly as I did so, hating that I appeared so weak and old to him when his own body was fit and in its prime. I pulled my suitcase to me and opened it, shifting the few items of clothing left inside until I saw the item, wrapped in a pillow slip and thankfully undamaged. I clambered back up to Victor and handed it to him, my eyes fixed upon him to see his reaction even though I was desperately afraid that he would be disappointed, or worse, displeased, and he took his time in revealing it to himself, turning it over in his hands with a thoughtful expression on his face before finally stubbing out his cigarette and dipping his hand within the slip to grasp what was there.

His mouth opened silently as he felt the soft fabric and, when he pulled the kaftan free, the blue and green silk sliding through his hands, his expression was one of wonder, his eyes reflecting the colours so perfectly that he seemed like an image or painting, too beautiful to be real. His chest heaved as he stared at the kaftan, which had once been one of his favourite items, and I continued to worry that I should not have brought it with me, that the memories might be too unpleasant to have such a physical reminder. But then the grin returned, the madman’s grin of old, and he lifted it over his head, wriggling into it and jumping up to stand on the bed with his arms wide and laughter on his lips.

“Oh, Rosey!” he cried. “Thank you! Thank you, a thousand times!”

“I was not sure,” I mumbled as he fell to his knees on the mattress, bouncing excitedly before crawling forward and settling between my spread legs, “whether you would still want it, still need it. You are so much more comfortable now, in your body, and your mind.”

He leant forward to place a kiss on my nose and then rubbed it with his own, his smile so wide that I thought surely it must be hurting his jaw, but that did not stop him and he kissed me soundly before sitting back to run his hands down his chest, enjoying the feel of the delicate silk against his hands and skin. 

“No, no,” he told me, his eyes sliding shut. “I mean, yes, I feel better, more comfortable, more at ease, than I might have been before, but that does not mean that sometimes I do not feel...” he huffed at his inability to find the right word to describe how he felt. “I do still feel... hmm, sometimes it is difficult to be the General. To be the man that they need me to be. To be a man at all. Thank you, Rosey.”

His voice had lowered to a whisper, soft and sing-song, and I leaned forward to kiss him again, rejoicing at the passion with which he kissed me back. He pressed his chest to mine and we both shivered at the slide of the fabric between us. He wriggled above me, fidgeting until I began to wonder what he was doing until he began to tug down the blanket which separated us and drawing my attention to the fact that he was no longer wearing his trousers. I let my head fall back, closing my eyes tight and giving my body over to him, to do with as he chose. And he did, and continued kissing me even as I fell into an exhausted sleep afterwards, my lips desperate to remain locked with his even as the rest of my body screamed that it needed to sleep, and so, as I let myself fall back into oblivion, all I was aware of was the feel of his lips, the flash of blue and green silk as my eyelids fluttered, and the sound of his breathy laughter as he stroked my hair.

~

And so it went. The weeks began to pass and I made myself useful as best I could and tried to keep my occasional fits of dizziness to myself whenever they occurred, though it was hard to ignore the memories and sensations when they flooded me, but I hid them as best I could from Victor who despite his sincere affection, was often too busy to notice in any case. I began to think that we might actually be able to make the situation work, that we had a hope of happiness and that, when the war ended we could possibly stay in Italy together, for Bauer believed firmly that the Fascists could be defeated and I trained myself to believe what he told me. I had found my Bauer, and it seemed too good to be true. And it was.


	32. Chapter 32

The weather has turned very cold, has it not? It makes it hard to find a reason to leave my bed. Or to do anything at all. My body feels heavy and slow, redundant and lifeless... and yet I continue to live, and I cannot fathom why. My bones are crumbling, my skin like tissue paper, covered in scars and spots and so very, distressingly, ugly. And what purpose do I serve?

What purpose did I serve then, even, when I was at least not so old, if not more attractive? Victor found work for me, always, and made me seem more valuable than I truly was and, after a handful of months I was able to assist in working the new printing press. My knowledge of printing was limited and we could not have purchased new machinery even if we had been in possession of the money needed and so I suggested the idea of working on a smaller scale. The Resistance already sold cigarettes, and handed out food and school supplies and medicine to those who needed such things, and it was ridiculously easy to slip single sheets of paper, smaller than the size of a bank note, in among the supplies. I worked the printer by hand and the ‘secret slips’ as we came to call them, looked like simple, handwritten notes, and with little of the impassioned rhetoric of the pamphlets the Resistance had once made. They were the sort of thing that could be easily passed over by a soldier doing a random inspection, and that was the secret to their success.  
I found rather a lot of pleasure in creating them, and thinking up different, new ways to bring hope to the people (for as I began to live among them I saw just how desperately they were in need of hope) and as my language skills improved, so too did the inventiveness of my printed creations. Some I fashioned to look like shopping lists, but instead of a list of vegetables I would right something along the lines of:  
food  
shortages  
in the  
south  
are a  
falsehood

Others I wrote like poems, warning against the government but offering hope. Still more were written to resemble careless notes, reminders that there was something greatly wrong with the system, that there should have been no reason for war, that not so long ago things had been different and people had been free to learn and work regardless of their sex or status. Some were very short indeed; a list of the names of those who had recently died, or of the families who had mysteriously vanished when their deviance from Catholicism was discovered by the authorities. Others contained but a single sentence: “I fear to send our children to school”, “when will Hitler turn his greedy eye on us?”, “We have been sold by the government like cattle, and grinned all the way”, “last week they hanged my son”, all of which I had overheard when out in the street, the words spoken in whispers. I wrote them down and passed them on and, in my very small way, helped to breed the dissent which began to build fiercely within the city.

It was on one such day, some seven months into my stay in Milan, when I had been taking a turn around our quarter of the city, listening to gossip and delivering my secret slips to a butcher to place among the wrappings for his meat, that I heard a whisper from more than one mouth that the governor of the city had plans to crack down on and destroy the Resistance movement once and for all. No one knew how he intended to do this, it seemed, only that he was confident he would succeed. I tried to seem appropriately interested, yet not personally concerned as I took in the information and then hurried back to my home, clamping down on my anxiety fiercely and telling myself that all would be well because my Bauer was in control and would not let us come to harm, until I rounded the final corner and saw that all was not well with those I loved most. 

Violette was in her accustomed place at the flower stall, her trousers and jacket in the style of the younger men of the city, and one sleeve neatly tucked and pinned around her missing limb. But the usual carefree demeanor which she adopted for the character of flower seller was absent, her entire body radiating rage as she stood, glaring balefully at Adriano. He, for his part, was frowning down at her in an attempt to intimidate her I have no doubt, but she showed no sign of backing down. I did not doubt that their argument was in some way related to the day’s newest gossip, for if I had heard it, then they certainly had, and it was the sort of information that set everyone on edge, not that Violette and Adriano needed an excuse to reignite their hostilities.

For in the months we had been in residence in the De Santis home Adriano had become increasingly agitated and displeased by our participation in resistance activities, and had turned from a young man happy enough to take orders and to do whatever was necessary to aid the cause of his beloved Resistance, to a churlish and argumentative member of the inner circle. Violette had been welcomed warmly, for her quick mind made her an asset in the war room while her easy manner and habit of leaving silences open for others to fill made her a very capable gatherer of gossip and information. She had, at first, taken over the small flower stall that served as a front for the De Santis home (and an information point for Resistance spies) because it was a job that did not require her to exert herself too strenuously but which allowed her to spend time out of doors, something she had been quite desperate for after a month underground in the hidden hospital ward. I know that she had been nervous in the beginning, wondering whether her language skills would be up to the challenge, and whether she would be questioned about her arm, or her attire. But in reality she fared better than even Bauer and I hoped she would. Her Italian was well honed through conversation with her nurses and her ability to adopt an appropriate Milanese accent was nothing short of impressive. As to her appearance, well I believe she gained something of a reputation as a flirt with several of the women in the suburb, who mistook her for a handsome, if petite, young man, and even her height was not much remarked upon, as I overheard two widows at the bakery one morning speculating as to whether the De Santis nephew had suffered from polio or some other disfigurement during childhood, taking both her lack of stature and missing arm as signs of some childhood misfortune or illness rather than anything more covert or mysterious. It was a quiet joke within our adoptive family that Victor and Violette (or Viol as she was often then called) were commonly referred to as the nephews of Signora De Santis, whilst I was spoken of as her brother, and therefore an uncle to my two dearest friends. It never failed to bring a smile to Victor’s face, even when it was but the barest upwards twitch of his lips, to hear me referred to as uncle, to his nephew, and Violette thought it a fine thing that she should be given such youthful status when she was only a few years younger than I.

There was no smile on her face that day, however, and I dreaded having to deal with the two of them, for while Violette had the good sense to keep her words civil, Adriano had been increasingly reckless when it came to voicing his grievances in public. But as I approached, my steps slowing in an attempt to avoid the moment when I would actually have to confront them both, Victor appeared and I slowed further until I had stopped completely, watching the anger drain from Adriano’s face, to be replaced by fear, so strange seeming in response to Victor’s gormless smile. His smile was not at all what it seemed, of course. I had been greatly confused the first time I had witnessed it, the way he would smile so innocently and seemingly openly out in public, a simple sketch artist, selling flowers to get by in hard times, charming those who knew him as nothing else - and yet that same smile, to those who were used to seeing him as the impassive General, inspired a unique kind of fear and wariness, and upon closer inspection I had been able to identify the coldness still visible in his eyes, the falseness of the persona, and it had indeed been frightening to witness. He had always been a talented liar, now he was a master in the art of masks and deception, and it sincerely frightened many of those under his command. 

Despite meetings, discussions, debates, and votes that were open to all members, there was still very much a sense that Victor, as the person of senior rank, was in command, and would have the final say in all matters. It was strange, and though he played the character well, I was aware that there were times when Victor would have been happier if he could trust those beneath him to simply do their jobs and use their own initiative, but when I had asked him about it he had simply sighed, leaning his cheek against my shoulder as we reclined in bed, too exhausted from our work to do more than hold hands, and explained that he suspected that too many of the people could not remember a time when they had not been under some form of domineering government or military or monarchy, and so, even as they fought for autonomy and freedom, they naturally drifted back into the ruler/peasant paradigm. 

Yet for all of that, he had grown into the role of General. He would listen patiently to every concern or complaint, would give time to any member of the Resistance who approached him with a problem which they could not solve alone, but when it came down to the wire (and there was quite a lot of barbed wire in Milan at that time) he knew that the difficult decisions had to come from him, and he bore that burden silently, his emotions hidden deep behind the mask of his finely sculpted face. And I wondered, oh so many times, when that porcelain mask would break. Violette had tried to speak to him of it, of the danger inherent in keeping his feelings so contained within - for we had both seen him shatter in the past - but had been kindly, but firmly, rebuffed. He was happy to hear her opinion on anything concerning the running of the Resistance, but not his personal life - even Signora De Santis could not convince him to be gentler on himself - and so they looked to me, as if I could possibly fix him, when in truth he had mostly fixed himself.

Violette questioned him, Adriano argued with him but, after our first few days back in each other’s company, I never did. It was my duty, my honour, to support him, to argue for him and vote in his favour - to be his helpmeet and his stalwart - a job which I performed to the best of my abilities. I did it, not only because I believed in him, and saw that his plans were always formulated for the benefit of those around him, but also in order to justify the faith he and others had put in me, the trust that had been given to Victor’s assessment of me as worthy of joining the ranks of the Resistance. I worked harder than I had ever worked in my life, not just in my assigned position, but at any job which required an extra pair of hands or eyes or ears. I set out to prove myself, for if Victor had reinvented himself then I intended to recreate my own person to match, to do as I had ever done, which was to find a suit that was, if not identical, at least complimentary to his own. And I believe I had some small measure of success, for he did not complain, and if he was not so easily affectionate as he once was, well, I did my best not to notice, to see it as a positive thing, that he had learned to live without the need to hold my hand, even if my own still itched whenever I saw his, the urge to take his hand in mine becoming at times distracting in it’s overwhelming urgency. It was akin to the feeling one gets when standing on a precipice, the urge to jump which must be ignored at all costs, and so I did, and learned to keep my hands firmly in my pockets. I was back in his life and he was in mine and I resolved that it was enough to wake up beside him most mornings, and to go to sleep by his side five nights out of ten, and to know that he was healthy, and of sound mind. 

In truth, I made do, for there was no other way. I loved him to the point of pain, and I know that he loved me. I know it, for whenever he donned the black and brown soldier’s garb that was his uniform when he went out at night, doing the dirtier business of the Resistance, he always carried with him the small blue book, stuffed with carefully folded extra pages and held together with a bootlace. And because when he returned from those missions his kisses and caresses would be fevered and desperate and I knew that he was expressing his relief at being able to return to me alive.

Yet by day we both assumed our characters, working at our various tasks and being satisfied with the fact that the desk, which Victor had indeed set up for me in the war room, was across from his, and we could look up and smile to each other whenever we felt the need. Those smiles were small, and often fleeting, but they were genuine, unlike the smile which he wore that day in the street, placing an arm casually around Violette’s shoulders, as if to simply be enjoying his ‘brother’s‘ company, when in truth it was his declaration that he did not appreciate Adriano’s attempt to bully Violette in any thing, and intended to get to the bottom of the situation.

I began to walk once more, enjoying the way the taller, younger man seemed so transformed in the face of a simple grin, and saw Violette’s own smile return, her persona slipping back into place as she paused the conversation to sell a bouquet of flowers to a passing couple. She had been equally keen, when she was declared fit to leave her bed, to prove herself a worthy member of the resistance movement. Her opinions were held in high esteem, at first because they were valued so highly by Victor, but then because her ideas had merit and her mind seemed particularly adept at the sort of analytical thinking required in coordinating such an underground organisation. She truly came into her own there, gained respect, continued her education, and seemed, like Victor, to have found her place in the world. She was not the only woman in our company who chose to wear men’s clothing and soon became known to many as simply Viol, which was not considered strange, for there were many among us who had changed their names for a multitude of reasons. It was a place that was at once intimate and close but which also supported heavily the need for privacy. It was a place where we made many friends, and where both Victor and Violette belonged - respected and busy and fighting for what was right. 

Only I was privy to the other reason for Violette’s intense concentration and passion for her work, her drive and intensity. For she had not heard from Jana, not in the six months since we had been in Milan, even though she had sent three letters, and so, fearing the worst, she had thrown herself into the work she was given, gathering information, writing reports, decoding and translating and discussing tactics and possibilities in the war room until Maria of Lucia ordered her to rest (a favour which she returned when it was they who pushed themselves to exhaustion) and though I believe that she was happy and fulfilled living in Milan - though happy does not seem the right word to describe what I truly mean - still it ate at her, to not know for certain what had become of the woman she loved. I knew because I had felt such a fear myself and, when the day’s work was finally done and the evening meal finished along with which ever chores were in need of completion, when there was nothing left to do, then I would open my arms to her, and she would accept my embrace, knowing that I understood her fear and pain. She had never been the sort to cry easily, but so much had changed in her life and there had been so much pain, and I thought no less of her for the tears that she shed silently against my chest on those nights, only wishing that there was more I could do for her, knowing there was not, and knowing that I would never be able to rid myself of the burden of guilt that came with the knowledge that the pain she felt - in both her body and her heart - was my fault. 

I know there were those who wondered about us, those who knew Violette to be a woman and wondered whether we were sister and brother or if, because we did not share a bed but were so openly affectionate, we were perhaps betrothed but not yet wed. Others suspected Victor and I to be brothers, or perhaps uncle and nephew as the wider rumour suggested, and I know that there were a few who guessed at the physical nature of our relationship and realised that we were lovers rather than platonic friends or relatives, but we were not questioned or challenged on such things, at least, not at first.

Yet I digress, because on that day, as I finally reached my two dearest ones, kissing them each on the forehead in a fashion that I had found I could safely get away with since I was considered their elderly relative, I came to see that it was not simply the rumours circulating which had caused Violette, and then Victor, to become so very irritated.

“Give Viol the letter, Adriano,” Victor said quietly, his mouth still smiling and yet I could hear the threat behind the brightly delivered words. “It is a personal correspondence and none of your concern.”

“But it makes no sense,” he responded, his voice rising and his tone becoming ever more petulant. “It appears to be a letter entirely about flowers, it does not make sense, and is therefore suspicious. You must see the connection.”

“You opened my letter? You have read my letter?” Violette whispered, her tone betraying shock and fear rather than anger and I turned to see that her face was pale and her eyes wide and serious, the smile vanished from her lips. 

It was then that I realised what was being discussed, that the longed for correspondence from Paris had finally arrived, that Jana had received at least one of the letters written to her and had replied. And Adriano was keeping that letter from Violette.

“I did not open your letter,” he retorted, his calm slipping when he realised that I had come to stand on Violette’s other side and he was had to justify himself to the three of us, rather than simply argue with one. “The Bureau opened your letter, before sending it on to this address. And I know it is only from her ‘friend‘ but I cannot hold my tongue any longer, for the woman’s family were the most pompous of the aristocracy, I recognised her seal as well as any of you do, she surely cannot be trusted. Not when there are rumours that the governor is set to eradicate us once and for all, when the soldiers seem to come ever closer to catching us, knowing our plans and where we shall be. There must be a spy among us and who could it be if not her?”

Violette opened her mouth to respond but stopped herself when Victor tightened his grip on her shoulder, ever so slightly.

“What makes you think there is a spy among us, Adriano?” he asked politely, his face pleasantly confused. “And what makes you suspect Viol?”

“It is obvious,” Adriano scowled in reply. “She is newly come among us, she is receiving letters written in a code not used by any of our members. There have been too many close calls of late, all of them since she arrived.” 

His voice had risen again but Victor simply cocked his head to one side as if honestly perplexed by what he was hearing and in the face of such a silence the poor young man blundered on, whilst I could only admire how perfectly Bauer had learned to imitate the stare which Violette had always used upon him when he was being illogical in his assumptions. 

“If not her then him,” Adriano continued, pointing at me and squaring his chest as if for a fight. “None of us know anything about him, yet he was welcomed into the most inner circles of the Resistance without even a vote on the matter, who is to say that he is not the spy?”

“Hmm,” Victor mused quietly when the other man paused, and I felt a strange simmering within my belly as I sensed the change in his manner. It was the same way I had always felt when I sensed he was about to embark on a ludicrous lie, building upon it to create a story that somehow, despite its utterly ridiculous premise, became somehow believable, and adrenaline began to flood my body in anticipation of the game. “It is an interesting thought, Adriano. But I ask you again, what makes you believe that there is a spy among us at all? I have heard no rumours about any spy, and while I have heard the boastings of the Governor with regard to our humble organisation I do not know of any firm plan on his part to achieve such ends, so am quite honestly confused by your conclusions. But would you like to hear something I do know, Adriano?” he asked, his voice slipping into a deeper, more dangerous register. “I know that the two people standing here with me can be trusted. I would trust them with my life. Indeed I have. Just as I have trusted you. That should be enough.”   
“Perhaps, once,” Adriano said with a shake of his head, “it might have been. But now I fear you have turned soft. You would prefer to simply hand out food rather than sabotage the thieves and charlatans that control this city. Once you were your father’s son, a true revolutionary, and now...” he paused for effect but Victor did not rise to it, his face entirely blank as he stared down his opposition, forcing Adriano to continue without encouragement. “Now there are rumours about you. And about you and him. And there are rumours that there is a spy in our ranks, and if you will not seek it out, then I shall. What do you say to that.”

The rush within my veins turned then to a heady buzz, a drone that made my muscles twitch as the panic crept up within me and I tried to watch Victor without seeming to stare for I did not wish to give Adriano any more ammunition against us than he already held, yet I was desperate to see how Victor would react. And see it I did for, though I am sure it was imperceptible to anyone else, I could detect the nervous twitching of his eyes, the thinning of his lips, the tightening of his jaw. It was nothing as extreme as it had once been, when we had both been so desperately afraid that Breton would reveal our affair to both our social circle and the authorities, or when we had been delivering Otto’s missives and putting ourselves in a greater peril on a daily basis, but it was there, and I watched with great anticipation, wanting to know how he would proceed.

After a long silence he finally spoke and the light and pretense was gone from his tone entirely, the General’s voice there in its place, a voice which left little room for argument.

“If you suspect a spy, then I will support you in your investigation, as long as it is conducted discretely and compassionately. But I shall not allow it to be used as an excuse for fear mongering or the spreading of untruths among our ranks. I hope you understand me in this. As to your other assertion...” He paused once more and gave the man before him time to begin to regret his hasty choice of words before continuing. “The Resistance is home to those who fight against a State which invades the privacy of its members. It is a place where people are judged on their merits and humanity, not their sexuality or any other private or personal matter. You held my father in high esteem, Adriano, I know, but he is dead and that is the end to it. Just as this is the end of our conversation. Now, give the letter to me and return to your duties.”

He held out his hand and waited, emotionless and cold as his second in command looked away with pursed lips and cheeks that were ever so slightly flushed with embarrassment. He retrieved the letter from his pocket and handed it to Bauer grudgingly before leaving, turning stiffly and walking away from us with shoulders hunched and hands balled into fists. I waited until he had rounded the corner before relaxing my own body and turning to my friends, and Violette did the same, but Victor did not leave the character of the General and looked at us both with a strange expression, cold yet deeply troubled, but then smiled and handed Violette her letter, telling her politely that he would like to read it when she was done, if it seemed appropriate to her that he did so, as he felt he would take great interest in what Jana had to say on the subject of which flowers were currently in bloom in Paris. He turned next to me and requested that I accompany him indoors, as he had a matter that required my opinion but which could only be discussed in private. Violette was no longer listening to us, for she had already sat herself down and opened the envelope, cursing under her breath at the clumsiness of her actions, and I felt my accustomed twinge of guilt at the frustration on her face and at the way she held her held her arms tight to her body, a sign that the pain was mounting, as it always did by the day’s end, even if she would not admit it.

We left her to her letter, though I wished deeply to know the contents and that Jana was alive and well, and went into the house but instead of heading to the basement stairs and the Resistance headquarters Victor moved swiftly to the narrow staircase that led to our room and I followed him with some confusion, and a great deal of trepidation, wondering what he needed to tell me, for I knew it must be grave indeed if it required such privacy, and indeed it did, though it was not quite what I expected.

I had been prepared for some sort of revelation when the door closed behind us, news or questions or... something related to our work. I was completely unprepared for the lips that crashed violently against mine in a kiss more desperate than I had felt from Victor in so long. He pulled back for a moment, to draw breath, but not long enough for me to ask any questions of him before he began to kiss me again in earnest, his lips and teeth and tongue attacking mine whilst his strong yet compact body began to maneuver us toward our shared bed. I began to worry, alarms firing in my mind, for this was so very out of character for him, but found that I could not stop my own mouth from responding to the passion of his embrace, and allowed myself to be pushed down onto the bed before I could even begin to think of a reason why we should not be doing such things when the sun was still an hour from setting and there was yet work to be done. 

And a great part of me did not wish to interrupt him, for while it was out of character for Bauer the General, it was tragically reminiscent of Victor the artist, and I recognised his frenzied passion as a coping mechanism from his younger days, when the need to be as physically close to me as possible - to ground himself in the reality of shared experience and sex - had been the only way to set his mind free of the demons that plagued it. And so I allowed it, allowed him to undress me and, when we were both blessedly naked, welcomed him into my arms, my embrace, and the small comfort it could offer. He sighed when his bare chest met mine but, instead of the continuation of his desperate kisses, his body slowed, calmed by the closeness of our skin and hearts, and I held him tight to me, stroking his hair and neck and spine until, after I had watched the shadows move and lengthen across the ceiling with the passage of the sun, he let out a single sob, and finally told me what was troubling him so greatly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took a while, and for the quality of the writing, and that not much happens. I'll try to do the next bit during the week. Thank you for bearing with me.


	33. Chapter 33

I recall so vividly the feel of his hair slipping through my fingers as he lay atop me, his face pressed into the crook of my neck, his breath hot against my skin. His hair had grown since I had arrived in Milan and I had watched it with interest, at the way he was constantly tucking it behind his ears when he could not be bothered to slick it back, at how satisfied he was when it was long enough that it did not fall across his face when the pomade he slathered into it wore off but instead fell naturally toward his nape as if it too anticipated the return of the hair ribbon. I wondered if it was because of me, whether being back in my company had made him, even subconsciously, revert to the style he had used to favour, but was afraid to ask in case he simply had not realised that he was overdue for a haircut and cut it all off once more.

It took a great deal of courage to ask him what was wrong that day, to put the question to him, because in truth I was afraid to bring up most subjects, in case it forced him to admit that he did not want or need my opinion and did not want or need me in his life. But the desperation he had displayed, the obvious need for physical reassurance, pushed me to ask because even if he did not need my thoughts he did need my presence, and I knew I would be able to serve him better if I knew what troubled him. And so I asked, and felt his blunt, bitten to the skin, fingernails press tightly into my sides as he gathered his courage to speak.

“There is a spy. I am quite sure there is.”

At first I could not understand his fear, unless he truly did think it could be Violette, and I began to speak to reassure him but he pushed himself up and away from me and I let out a disappointed breath as my skin prickled in the absence of his warmth and forgot entirely what I had been about to say, though he seemed to have found more than enough words to make up for my silence.

“There is a spy among us, there is, I know it. Everything points to it and my fears have been building for the last six months at least but it is not you and it is not Violette because my first moment of worry on the subject occurred two weeks before you arrived so I know it is not either of you, but...” he shuffled backwards, grabbing up the kaftan from where it hung over one of the bed knobs and pulling it over his head before settling himself cross-legged on the bed facing me, though his eyes seemed to be gazing inward rather than in my direction.

“But...” I prompted, and he pursed his lips, acknowledging my verbal prod, but still taking a long moment to think before continuing.

“But I did not wish to believe my suspicions. They are grave suspicions, horrid suspicions. And, and, and now I doubt my suspicions and hate that I ever had them, and how can I voice them now, or work on those suspicions when, if I am wrong, untold damage could be done? But what damage might be done if I say nothing? Damage has already been done. And I know that one of the people whom I have trusted and put faith in has betrayed us and is even now working against us, putting us all in danger. And I do not know what to do! There are too many lives dependent on me and I am not... good enough, capable enough, strong enough... to protect them all. And they think I can. They have faith in me!”

His fingers were fisted in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, hard enough that there were strands already loose in his hands, and his face was the very picture of misery and tortured indecision.

“You are capable, Victor-”

“No!”

“You are doing your best.”

“My best?” he asked with disdain. “People have died, Rosey. There have been deaths, imprisonments, torture, grief, pain - oh god, so much pain. And I have helped it along by not seeking out this rat in our ranks before now, yet now, now I fear that even my suspicions were wrong and I have not the faintest idea of who the villain even is! I am a failure!”

I had tried to speak softly, reasonably, but he would not hear any praise and so I changed my argument, continuing in a soft tone but not attempting to persuade him - when he was in such a dark frame of mind - that he was in fact very good at his job, even if gaining the position had been unexpected.

“You work very hard.”

“Not hard enough.”

“Or perhaps too hard. You are tired.”

He let out a laugh, completely devoid of humour, and looked up at me with eyes that were so very weary.

“There are no holidays to be had now, Rosey.”

I nodded. “I doubt we could even make it to Nice.”

“When all this is over,” he said with a glimmer of a smile, “perhaps we can go back. And perhaps I will show you Switzerland. It is different from Nice but I think you will find it very beautiful all the same. There are... flowers, clouds, quiet... Did you,” he paused, his brow creasing as if he wondered where his thoughts had appeared from. “Did you enjoy the Alps?”

And this time it was my turn to smile.

“They were very beautiful,” I told him but, when he saw my smile, he ducked his head and began to fiddle with the hem of the silk robe, his bottom lip caught in his teeth as his brain span and wheeled so quickly ahead of him.

“You could... go back.”

“No, I coudn’t.”

“You could-”

“-stay here and help,” I told him, speaking with finality to assure him that I had no intention of abandoning him.

“I love you,” he said, still looking down at his hands, and my heart seemed to seize up within my breast at the words for he seemed to be saying something else entirely, and I did not know what that was.

“I know. And I love you,” I told him, and when I reached out my hand to him he took it and climbed nimbly back into my lap. “But now we must focus on this problem, for something must be done.”

It was amazing to feel him relax against me, to know that I had calmed him, could help him, was able to ground him, still. And yes, to know that he needed me. I wrapped my arms tightly around him and held him close, hoping that I was doing good rather than harm.

“I know,” he murmured. “And perhaps the actions of this week will help to bring things to light. Very few know what is planned. If something goes wrong... at least my suspicions shall be confirmed.”

“You are right when you say it is a secret,” I told him rather drolly. “Even I do not know what you have planned. Other than the dinner tonight. And I’m not sure I even understand that.”

“It is the beginning of Carnevale, Rosey, even a war would not stop these people from celebrating before Lent begins, it is not that hard to understand. There shall be a meal, and there shall be wine, then there shall be dancing. And then, for the next week, there shall be fireworks, and folks dressed in costumes and masks in the street, and just the right amount of mayhem to allow us to do what we need to do.”

“Which is?” I asked casually, but he leaned back to look at me with mock suspicion.

“If I tell you the details then I shall have to add you to my list of possible traitors and I do not wish to do that, Rosey. The fewer people who know of this the better. That way, if somehow the police do appear or seem aware of our plans, I will know very nearly who the spy is.”

“Nearly know?” I questioned, but he simply glared at me, his lips twitching as he attempted to keep the smile from his face.

“Shut up.”

I responded by pulling him tightly to my chest with a growl that caused the laughter to erupt from him in earnest and made me wish that we could stay in that moment for all time, happy and alone together, laughing and close, our thoughts in sync and our minds intertwining. He shifted in my lap until he had straddled my hips and taken my face in his hands, laughing as he kissed me, due more to his fear and nerves than real humour, laying delicate kisses to the corner of my mouth, my cheeks, eyelids, nose, and lips, his pressing against mine again and again with increasing pressure and until I could take it no longer and grasped his face to pull him into a deep kiss, opening my mouth to allow his tongue to slide in and massage my own, moaning as he pressed his groin down on to my rapidly growing erection, the only thing between us the silk of the kaftan.

We continued to kiss and move against one another until I began to feel that I could take it no longer, that my nerves were aflame, that I was trapped in an endless moment of near-painful pleasure. Victor seemed to sense it as well, for he pulled back, dragging my lip between his teeth for one, long, aching second before lifting the kaftan over his head and casting it aside, the late afternoon sun hitting his skin and hair and making him look so like a child of the gods that I began to doubt that he could possibly be real. It stole the breath from my lungs that day - the glow of his skin, the way his lean muscles moved, the way the sun shone on the polished skin of his scar - and now, thinking back to it, it brings tears to my eyes.

He leant past me and opened the small cupboard beside the bed to retrieve his bottle of oil but as he did so our bodies came into glorious contact for a moment and it took the greater part of my will not to buck upwards, but he did not leave me wanting for long. He poured the oil over my chest, running his hands over my torso until I was thoroughly coated and my body was thrumming with need. His hands slid down until his thumbs brushed over my pubic hair, his fingers caressing my thighs with terrible slowness until I began to whimper in frustration. He let out a breathy laugh in response before removing his hands and shuffling forward on his knees and I watched as his penis, flushed and erect, came into contact with mine, sliding forward and sending shocks through my groin to my spine. He took us both in one oil-slicked hand and let out a moan to echo my own at the sensation, starting up a fast pace, his breath coming out fast and sharp through his nose as he worked the both of us, whilst my own hands flew to his thighs, my fingers clutching him roughly as I fought to control myself and not climax too soon, my back arching until I feared it would snap in two.

I tried to sputter a warning, to tell Victor to slow down, to give me a moment, but he stopped my protests with a fierce kiss, his tongue thrusting into my mouth, his teeth hitting my lips and tongue, harsh and passionate and as desperate as I felt, whilst all the while the speed of his hand increased. I felt as the rhythm of his hips began to fail and his kisses and movements became frenzied before his orgasm swept through him, ripping a frantic cry from his throat as his fist squeezed tight, and my own body shook in its ecstasy in response, my muscles trembling as I attempted to settle my heart, even though Victor had not released his grip on the two of us, causing me to twitch as I struggled to cope with how extremely sensitive every inch of my body felt while his hand continued to stroke lazily.

He eventually removed his hand, slowly, gently, and brought his arm forward to support himself shakily, his chest still heaving and his dark lashes fluttering as he struggled to open his eyes.

“I love you,” he told me, though it sounded like a question rather than a statement, and all I could do was nod dumbly, my mouth dry and my tongue thick and slow in my mouth.

We stayed like that, our bodies still touching, still thrumming with a strange energy, an unnerving tension, until a knock at the door sent us both into a panic with Victor reaching for his abandoned trousers and instead tumbling from the bed in an awkward tangle of limbs, his hands too slippery to properly stop his fall as he collapsed in a heap, his voice breathy and on the verge of laughter as he called out to whoever was beyond the door that he needed a moment. I took longer to pull myself from the bed but managed to dress myself more quickly than Bauer, who had fallen into a fit of giggles as he searched the room for a towel to wipe his hands and stomach on and eventually I relented and passed him the one I had used to clean the worst of the mess from my own body before crossing to the door, giving him only long enough to button his shirt before I released the catch to see who was waiting for us.

Lucia, when I finally opened the door to her, gave me a look that told me she knew exactly what had passed between us and why we had kept her waiting, but when I began to mumble an apology she snorted and looked over my shoulder to where Victor was attempting to tuck in his shirt and smooth his hair all at once, with very little success.

“You do need not to apologise, Gui,” she told me, raising her voice just enough that Victor could hear her words as well, but not so loud that they would be heard by anyone down stairs. “I do not begrudge the two of you what little time you actually have together, and tonight is supposed to be a night of celebration after all. I would not have come to trouble you at all except that Viol and mama have shut themselves away in her room and Maria is beginning to fret because the other mothers have begun to arrive with their food for this evening, and I know this is not strictly among your duties Bauer, but I thought perhaps you could bring some order to the proceedings?”

Would that I had a camera at that moment, to capture the scowl that settled upon his face at the prospect of managing a kitchen full of mothers and dishes, but the look passed quickly and he nodded dutifully, adjusting his clothing and pulling on his shoes as I fetched him a waistcoat and jacket, helping him to dress as Lucia hurried back down to the kitchen and the mayhem which was now loud enough for us to both hear quite clearly.

“You see,” he muttered as I held his jacket for him, settling it onto his shoulders as he attempted to smooth his wayward hair. “There is never time for a holiday. If it is not death counts and patrol rosters it is a kitchen full of cooks or disgruntled boys who think they should be in charge instead of me, I do not need the added fear of falling on my face and breaking my nose because my hands are covered in-” he paused suddenly and turned to look at me with alarm in his eyes. “Rosey, do I... smell?”

I tried to keep my expression serious as I leant forward to sniff at his neck but it was a difficult thing, yet he did not return my smile when I pulled back, and still seemed uncertain when I assured him that he was fine.

“You smell faintly of olive oil, perhaps,” I told him, “but nothing particularly noticeable. Why are you so worried?”

“Because,” he replied, tugging at the hem of his waistcoat in annoyance. “If I should happen to go down there, smelling of sex, into a room full of very canny women, they will talk about it among themselves, and their friends, and their sisters and their husbands and I do not need rumours beginning about me, or who I might be sharing a bed with.” He took in a deep breath through his nose to calm himself but I could see the shadow of the old pain which had once clouded his eyes, the fear that he would be exposed, ridiculed, hated, and abandoned.

“You smell fine,” I repeated, nodding until he agreed with me, and then kissed him gently on the lips, rejoicing when he returned the kiss for a few seconds before he straightened his shoulders and descended the stairs, emerging two flights later as the ever confident General who took charge of the kitchen with ease, his face hard but not unkind and his eyes unreadable.

I watched him for a few moments as he worked his magic, charming people even as he gave them orders, and saw Lucia smile from her position at the opposite end of the room. She caught my eye and winked and I smiled back, for we were among the few who had witnessed the transition from the caring, oftentimes anxious man who overflowed with affection for those he loved, to the leader of an underground movement made up of hundreds of spies, soldiers, doctors, nurses, teachers, workers and families. He was a marvel and, seeing he was coping perfectly fine without me (as I knew he would), I left him to it and slipped quietly from the room, climbing the stairs back to the first landing and the house’s two other main bedrooms. I knocked upon the door and entered when I heard a voice from within bid me do so and, do you know, for a moment I genuinely wondered what reason there might be for Signora De Santis to be absent from her kitchen on such an important evening, until I walked into the small room and saw both her and Violette seated on the bed, their eyes rimmed with red and the letter from Jana open between them. My light mood evaporated in an instant and I shut the door behind myself and leant against it as I took in the scene, for there was a book open between them as well, and additional paper and a pencil, and I realised that they had been working on whatever code Jana had used in her letter, for Adriano had complained that it was not one that he recognised and I wondered what clues they had found to navigate it when Adriano, one of the Resistance’s best encoders, had been frustrated by it.

I noticed too that Violette was in only her trousers and underthings, and my eyes were drawn inevitably to her right arm and the healing scar, and of course, what was not there. She rubbed her hand over the stump gently when she saw me staring but instead of looking away in anger or embarrassment, she offered me a soft, melancholy smile.

“It still hurts sometimes,” she said quietly, “like a cramp in my wrist. And in the last month or so it has felt as though my arm were shrinking, the memory of my hand finally disappearing. It is not always a pleasant sensation. I almost did not write of it to Jana but...”

Her voice petered out and so I approached the bed cautiously, waiting for Signora De Santis to give me her permission before I sat beside her, and then waiting for Violette’s permission to look at the letter, for as desperate as I was for some news from home I knew that such a letter was likely to be deeply personal in nature, and did not wish to pry. As it was, when I read it, it seemed rather trifling, and confusing, for Jana had indeed employed a code, and one which most code breakers would not have recognised for, knowing that the De Santis family owned a flower stall, Jana had employed the language of flowers in her letter, and I was amazed at the depth of her knowledge. It was often difficult to remember that she had been given an aristocrat’s education, and had the sort of mind that seemed able to hoard facts and information and recall them with ease years later. I wish, as I often have, that I had known her better, but that was not to be.

I do not have the original letter (it was not mine to keep) but did make a copy of it along with the various translations and notes, as a reference, in case there was a need to use such a code again, which I still have in my small bundle of papers and mementos. And it went as follows:

_My dearest V,_  
_It was such a relief to receive your letter this week and I do hope that your position at the florist’s is everything you hoped it would be. My own garden has been growing in quite an unexpected manner and I am so pleased to have the opportunity to tell you of it, for gardening alone is not the same at all and I miss your company greatly._  
_I must begin by saying that the red tulips you planted for me are in bloom, in fact they have not stopped flowering since you left, I think perhaps they never will stop, and they sit so prettily among the pansies that are at the center of my small, private, window garden._  
_It pains me to tell you but I must relate that I had a rather unwanted suitor a number of months ago, who thought my head would be turned by blue cornflowers, even after I protested that I preferred violets, but he was persistent and then turned his anger upon my garden. He destroyed much of what I had created, pulled out my white roses and turned my inner gardens to mud, though moss has begun to overrun it, and now I have a problem with orange blossom. By summer I will need to hang dittany all around and fear there shall be a day lily in our midst and I must wear a carnation in my hair and hope that you will have a white tulip for me in return for my purple hyacinth._  
_In my empty hours, when not attending my own flowers, which are mostly zinnia and dahlia, I have come to be engaged in the public gardens too, tending the nasturtium and the yellow violets, and I hope for laurel and palms by the years end. Sadly, milfoil has overtaken the water supply, and monkshood has invaded our produce gardens, and so I have turned to nightshade and nettle to free the olives and the oaks. In the night I have been hard at work uprooting what edelweiss I can find, for it has grown up like a weed, and have been teaching the younger gardeners to do the same. They wear irises over their hearts as they work, ducking the rhododendron plants and planting bird of paradise flowers in their wake. You would be proud of them. Our shovels and picks are heavier than they once were, and of a darker metal, but they sit comfortably in our hands and we enjoy using them, for they are the appropriate tools for such overrun gardens as these. I myself have become rather adept at pruning the cornflowers, removing their heads whenever I can, for I only wish to see columbines now. When I run into marigolds I plant black roses, and have become the barer of yarrow and a sweeper of dead leaves. All of this is, of course, agapanthus blossoms, which I am sure you understand._  
_Finally, my dear friend, since reading that you have been unwell, it is my greatest wish to give you a bouquet of verbena and forget-me-nots, rosemary and salvia, surrounded by red carnations, with perhaps a primrose at the centre, and wrapped in ivy leaves, for I know they are your favourites. It does not change my feelings for you, dear heart. You are my purple violet, in so many ways, my Violette, and one day we shall plant a new garden together, I know we will. And there shall be a plum tree and white oaks and irises and roses, with maidens hair at the gate for good measure and violets around the door. Until then, I shall simply miss you, and shall write to you as often as I am able._  
_Yours always,_  
_J._

I placed the letter back down on the bed in confusion but Violette took pity on me and passed me a copy of the letter in her own handwriting, but with explanations of each of the flowers‘ likely meanings given as well. The book open between them was a florist’s encyclopedia and I gaped at the effort that had gone into such a short, simple seeming correspondence.

“This is what we think it means,” she told me nervously. “In some parts I wish we were wrong but I do not think we are.”

“The language of flowers is complicated,” the Signora explained when I continued to look at them both in confusion. “One plant may have several meanings, depending on the context of the message and it is not often written down. Usually we would arrange flowers to send a particular message of love, though my husband was the real expect in it (he loved his flowers) but I think we have understood her inferences.”

And so I read the letter a second time, noting that red tulips were a declaration of passionate love and that pansies said that Jana kept Violette in her thoughts and heart. My own heart clenched when I read that blue cornflowers were the national flower of Germany, as I realised that a German soldier must have ‘pressed his suit’ and that even though she had protested that she was not interested, he had forced himself upon her, destroying the white roses of her innocence and fidelity, whilst orange blossom and moss were signs of fertility and impending motherhood. Dittany was for birth, a day lily for a baby, and my vision blurred with the tears in my eyes as I read that she offered her apologies to her beloved in the form of a white tulip and hoped for a purple hyacinth as a symbol of forgiveness in return.

I could barely read on and was handed a handkerchief to wipe my eyes before continuing, frightened to know what else had become of the woman we had left behind, but Jana had no intention of remaining a victim and the second part of her letter filled me with a righteous joy, because it seemed that even as we had become involved in the Italian Resistance she had joined the French one. For while her own garden was filled with thoughts of absent friends and the promise to be ‘forever thine’, in the public gardens (which was to say, Paris) she spoke of tending to the nasturtiums and yellow violets of patriotism and love of her country, hoping for victory and freedom by the end of the year. Milfoil was for war and monkshood for a deadly foe but she claimed to be frighting back with nightshade and nettle (bitter truth and cruelty) to free the oaks and olives which symbolised our nation’s independence.

The image of her moving through the night, eliminating edelweiss, which even I knew was the flower favoured by Hitler and therefore associated with the nazis, was a frightening and yet enlivening one, and I felt pride that she was still protecting the younger women in her care, and teaching them to defend themselves, wearing the iris, the flower of France, as they went about their work, ducking danger and sewing freedom. It occurred to me, as I read, that Jana too had been forced by war to become a murderer, and though I understood the fierceness of her anger and desire for justice, I will not deny that I was somewhat terrified by her descriptions of cornflowers and columbines, reading Violette’s notes that this could suggest that she was either a dispeller of evil or that she saw winning as the only option and would tread any path to achieve it. I could picture her as the gatherer of dead leaves, a woman of black roses, and it chilled me, for she did it all with a child in her womb, in aid of a city that had adopted her but had not always been kind. I suspect her brothers would have been very proud, Victor certainly was, when he eventually read it, but I found it difficult to comprehend and only truly understood the urge to secrecy, which she gave through the mention of agapanthus.

It was a relief to move on to her final declaration of love and I read through it twice before raising my eyes and seeing that fresh tears were making tracks down Violette’s cheeks as she read along with me.

“Verbena because she weeps for me, forget-me-nots to say that she shall love me always, rosemary and salvia for healing, red carnations for an aching heart, a primrose for devotion, to say ‘I cannot live without you’. Ivy leaves for fidelity and affection...”

“And wedded love,” Siignora De Santis added, wrapping a protective arm around the smaller woman and pressing a motherly kiss to her short hair. “You do not need to hide who you are in this house, my dear, or what your Jana means to you. She has mentioned violets enough to make it obvious to anyone who knows of such things.”

“Violets?” I asked in confusion, and she smiled at me tearfully as she took the letter from me to read through its conclusion again.

“I come from the south, originally,” she explained, “and it was a rather accepted custom in our province that young people might explore their attraction to those of their same sex as they came to their maturity. One of the ways a young woman might show her affection to a friend was to send a posy of flowers, violets were often a favourite. Now I hear in the Americas they have taken to sending posies of violets as well. I would say it is the least subtle of the messages contained in this letter, and what a delightful coincidence that it is also your name, my dear.”

She stroked Violette’s hair lovingly as she spoke and I knew that she thought of Violette as a daughter, a fact which filled my heart with joy.

“Violets are a symbol of resurrection, of new life,” she told us. “A purple violet says, ‘you are in my thoughts always’, violets by the door show a home built of love and faith. When all of this is over I would very much like to see this garden made a reality, with its plum for independence, and white oaks for protection and freedom, roses for love and maidenhair for discretion, for a love that is perhaps still to be kept close to the chest. And violets.”

I fought to keep my own emotions at bay as I witnessed Violette’s silent tears but could think of nothing to say that would give her any relief from the grief and heartache that she must have felt. Eventually Signora De Santis asked what had brought me to her door and I mentioned that the preparations for that night’s dinner were underway and that Bauer was currently attempting to organise the proceedings. She laughed at that but did not rise from the bed until she was satisfied that Violette was well enough to do without her. She gave me a stern look as she left, a silent instruction to stay close to my friend and watch over her and I nodded in reply. I would not dream of abandoning her at such a time and we spent the next hour quietly together, rereading the letter and drafting a reply using similar motifs and language.

The sun had set before Violette felt truly calm enough to leave the room and I helped her to dress in a clean shirt, waistcoat and jacket, admiring the way she seemed to be at once a handsome woman and pretty, young man.

“So,” she said eventually, standing before the mirror and frowning at her reflection. “Jana is to be a mother after all.”

“I suppose so,” I murmured, staring at my own face in the mirror, wondering when it had acquired quite so many wrinkles and grey hairs.

“And what shall that make me?” She asked, and I could hear the ache in her voice, her fear at an unknown future.

“Well, it could make you... a father,” I said thoughtfully. “Then again, if I have learnt anything in my life it is that one can never have too many mothers.”

She chuckled at that but her humour did not last long, for she soon returned her gaze to her reflection and seemed to find it lacking.

“Do you think she shall still want me?”

“Of course I do,” I told her earnestly. “She has told you as much. And you will get back to her. I promise you.”

And so we descended the stairs together, where we were greeted with wine, handed to us by a rather frazzled looking Victor, and a night of good food, good company, and more joy than we had been given leave to experience a great many months. And even as my vision is clouded by tears at what was to befall us, I cannot help but smile at my memories of that night, like a final day of sun before winter snow. A moment of sun before the storm.


	34. Chapter 34

The celebrations went late into the night and I have experienced very little to rival them. There was food in abundance (most of it risotto, for there was little else left that was readily available for little money which could be so easily flavoured), a great deal of alcohol, music, masks and revelry. For hours I watched quietly from the corner, enjoying the joy of those around me, though wondering where Victor could be until he suddenly came bounding up to me, dressed as Arlechinno, and so complete was his disguise that I did not recognise him at first, though the nose of the mask was only a slight exaggeration of his his own, for he did not look at all like himself and it was only when I heard his laugh that I realised who it was grasping my hands and pulling me toward the dancing. 

Violette had been dancing from the first strum of the guitar, first with the De Santis sisters, then with their mother, and then with every one of Signora De Santis’s friends it seemed. She laughed and danced and was kissed on the cheek by almost every woman in attendance, which left her blushing and exhilarated, and I knew that in part she danced in celebration of the letter received and love confirmed, even as the tightness around her eyes belied the grief she felt at what had befallen her lover. I spent most of the evening watching her, enjoying the revelry and the fact that my cup was never allowed to stay empty, for I was considered an old man and therefore an elder worthy of respect. It is one of the few times in my life in which I was not self-conscious of my prematurely lined skin and greying hair because it seemed that at such an event I was to be served first, in both food and wine, and so I sat quite merrily against the wall, recalling that the last time I had seen my friends so carefree - dancing and drinking and smiling - had been Violette’s birthday party, the very night before Victor left us, a memory which tempered my happiness somewhat, but only until Victor appeared in his costume to drag me out among the dancers.

Most of the Resistance members were somewhat shocked by Victor’s easy smile and the exuberance with which he celebrated that night, for they were used to a man who was both serious and taciturn and, while they had seen the character of the flower seller (which many considered frightening for its realism when they knew their leader to be nothing like the simple, smiling artiste that he claimed to be when out in public), they had not often seen him smile and laugh so genuinely, especially those who did not work closely with us in the Resistance’s main offices. Eyes were fixed upon us as he dragged me forth, coaxing me to dance with him, his smile shining forth from beneath his half mask, and he put on quite the show for them. I suppose many of our fellow partiers thought it just another character, for he was in costume, decked out in green, white and red diamonds, his trousers tight, his coat fitted across his chest before flaring out over his hips, black dancers slippers upon his feet. He was every inch the daring clown, but also very much himself, and he bowed to me with a flourish before beginning to dance with me, pulling me about by my hands until I could not help but laugh. As the music flowed he even held me close, his actions still that of the clown even though I could feel his stuttered breath against my neck as we held one another so daringly. 

Eventually I had to retake my seat, and he walked me to it, bowing low and ridiculous once more, his grin contagious and his eyes sparkling so delightfully that I could not hide my adoration as I returned the smile. He fetched me my wine, aware I am sure that we were being watched, and then proceeded to blow me a kiss. I heard laughter and could not help but chuckle myself, at his audacity and theatrics, though I felt concern at his recklessness, for so often over the course of our lives it had been a sign that all was not well in his mind, and that he intended to put himself in danger, but it was difficult to remember such things when watching him dance about in such a costume, smiling so invitingly and handing out sugared almonds to the children and young people in attendance. There were others in masks and fancy dress and it was their job to lead the revels and, late into the night we were all ushered out into the street to witness the fireworks. The first of the fireworks, I should say, for the festival ran for a week and there were to be fireworks each evening, though many complained that the local authorities had put heavy restrictions on what could be used and the number of rockets that were to be ignited for the people. 

Around us there were people holding hands, smiling, gasping with delight at the colours, and loving kisses being exchanged in the darkness and bright lights, but when Victor found me again he simply slipped his hand into mine and pressed his last candied almond to my lips. Not long after that he stole away again and I did not ask him where he was going, for I knew he would not tell me. The streets were busier than normal, shadows were many, and he intended to use the chaos of Carnivale to his advantage. And so I watched him go, half skipping into the night, like a sprite or a ghost, dressed in a clown’s garb but with a knife in his belt. He looked back over his shoulder at me, as he began to fade into the darkness, and I fancied I could see the bright, pale shine of his blue eyes, though it was surely not possible in such uncertain light, yet I fancied that perhaps I could, and that perhaps there was some message within their depths for me, and then he blew another kiss and was gone, off about his business, whilst I was left unsteady in the streets, my blood pounding and my head suddenly aching from the noise and the lights and the smells and the sheer volume of the stimulation assaulting my mind and body. 

I began to wind my way through the crowds, back to the door of the flower shop, but collided with another man as I took the last steps toward my home, causing me to stumble badly so that I fell to the ground, and I glanced up to see who would pay me such an insult without so much as an apology or attempt to help me to my feet, only to be met with a mask. The man, dressed in a costume similar to Victor’s but in blacks and reds and grays, gave me barely more than a glance before he disappeared into the crowd, and I was filled with a deep sense of foreboding, for I had been able to see clearly that the man was armed, that my Bauer was not the only one about in the city dressed in such a manner, and that there truly were those out that night intending to cause harm. Yet I knew also that there was nothing I could do to help him and, as powerless as I felt, giving in to my anxiety would bring no benefit. And so I retired, trudging up the many stairs to our room and, when I arrived, lay on the bed and gazed at the walls and the papers tacked thereon, at my Victor’s art, at the colours and lines and the emotions that they conveyed. Despite the large amount of wine in my blood that night I did not fall asleep with any speed and when I finally did sleep I was disturbed by dreams which I cannot remember, though I recall the vague feeling of unease that they left behind when I awoke in the grey light of dawn to an empty bed and cramping stomach.

I took a moment to let my body settle, to wake up and become orientated, for the aftereffect of the last night’s festivities to ease, before I pulled on my clothes and descended from my room, my body moving toward the basement stairs before my brain had even processed the feeling of dread that was swiftly overtaking me. For that was where I found him, in the dim, mock hospital, though it was at once less terrible and more horrifying than I had feared. 

~

He sat in the chair by the bed, the very same that he had occupied when sitting at my bedside, though the bed he kept vigil by was the one Violette had used and the body in the bed was a very different one. He was still wearing his brightly coloured trousers but his upper body was bare and I studied his hunched shoulders and back for a minutes as I tried to process what I was seeing. For he held a wad of rags pressed to his upper arm and dried blood was smeared across his shoulder and his breathing seemed unsteady, even from a distance. I stared at him from the doorway for as long as I dared but eventually my eyes slid from the curves of his back and hips to the figure in the bed, the figure who lay too still to be anything other than dead, and before I knew what I was doing the tears were falling down my face as I stumbled toward the end of the bed, my mind refusing to believe that the person beneath those sheets, his face smattered with blood and dirt, was Thomas, the boy who had found us and helped us when Violette and I had first stumbled into the outer suburbs of Milan all those months ago. The scar that marred his jawline seemed to stand out too vividly, the cheeks which should have been full of colour and life were a pale that shaded toward grey, and in death he looked even younger than he had in life.

Victor looked up as I grasped the bars at the end of the bed, his eyes rimmed with red and his own face drained of its colour, but he did not speak. I moved around to sit at the edge of the bed, not wishing to disturb the body but knowing that my legs would not bear my weight under such a shock. There was a curtain on one side, blocking the bed from the rest of the ward but we were visible to the doctors and nurses who were coming and going, positioned as we were by the nurses’ desk and the doorway to the corridor and operating room, and so I attempted to keep my voice in check as I asked Victor what had happened.

“We ran into trouble,” he said simply. “Thomas took a bullet to the stomach at close range. I...” he took a shallow breath through his mouth before continuing and I could see his tense muscles beginning to shake as he related the facts to me. “I killed the man who fired the gun but that cannot bring back our own fallen ones. Another bullet grazed me as we made our escape.”

My stomach turned at hearing such news, at having to process that once again the man I loved had not only put himself in danger but had ended the life of another human being, even if that man had himself murdered our friend. I struggle with such things still, with reconciling such behaviour, though I know that his understanding of the value of life was different to mine, that he believed in doing whatever was necessary in aid of his cause, that he killed only when necessary, or when, I suspect, his anger overwhelmed him at seeing his friend murdered, or at the sheer magnitude of the suffering being caused by the fascist government. For their objective that night had been liberating prisoners, and in that they had succeeded. 

Another small force had simultaneously attacked one of the military’s ammunition stores and the result of the night’s work was seventy people freed and an arsenal of new weapons, the majority of which were to be forwarded on to the guerrilla forces in the mountains to the north. The prisoners were to be sent south and both collections were to happen that next night, under the pretense of families traveling to their home towns for Lent and the Easter celebrations to follow. Victor explained this to me in a low, fast tone, his eyes downcast and his brows drawn together, and I could see the anger in his features, though I struggled to understand where such acrimony was directed, until he sighed at the end of his report.

“This is all my fault, Rosey,” he said bitterly. “I knew there was a spy, I suspected it was one of the few who were aware of the details of this mission, but I went ahead with it anyway. I thought... I thought that the traitor was in the other group, those who went after the munitions, and that the members of the two groups were unaware of the details of each others missions. I thought-” 

He stopped, struggling to keep each breath from emerging as a sob, and I sat silent as he fought with his mind, trying to decide how much he should tell me, and how safe we were in the hospital ward, where too many might overhear us if we were not careful. I stretched out my hand and he stared at it for a long moment before lowering the rag from his arm to his lap and reaching out to me with his own hand, though he stopped short of actually touching me, leaving it to me to decide whether I actually wanted to make contact. His hand was not pretty, crusted with dried blood, especially around the ragged stubs of his fingernails, and shaking ever so slightly from both stress and exhaustion, but I grasped it firmly all the same and saw him bite his lip, blinking furiously, for he had believed honestly that I would reject him and want no part in his activities, as if I could possibly, ever, deny him my love and affection, even when it hurt me so greatly.

We sat in silence for some time, though I do not know how long, until Maria walked over cautiously, treading as if she were approaching a beast of uncertain character, who might bite as soon as look at her, and in truth there was something wild in Victor’s eyes, grief and anger and fear of what was to come, but he attempted to greet her civilly when the doctor came near.

“Are you ready for me to stitch you up now?” she asked, producing a needle from her pocket which made us both blanche. 

“Does it really need stitching?” Bauer asked her tiredly but I squeezed his hand to bid him do as he was told and so he let out a resigned sigh and nodded, though his hand stayed firmly in mine as his wounded arm was washed and prepared. 

I saw him flinch with each push of the needle but he did his best to remain still. Maria had explained that their supply of anesthetic was low but that she could give him some if he required it, which Bauer had of course refused, insisting that it was a trifling wound that barely needed sutures at all, and so he forced himself to endure it silently, though when it was done his face had gone from white to a shade of pale green and he was taking breaths unsteadily through his nose, his gaze fixed upon the face of Thomas.

“They will need to take his body soon,” Maria said softly as she wiped the fresh stitches with an alcohol soaked swab. “I am sorry we could not help him, General.”

“You did everything you could,” he answered softly. “I am sorry that I could not save him. I will write to his mother shortly.”  
 “You should let your arm rest a while first,” came the doctor’s reply but she did not push the matter and slipped away quietly to arrange for the body’s removal, though Victor showed no sign of moving.

I tried think of some way I could help him yet could not seem to repress the strange mixture of disgust, shame and confusion I felt when I looked upon my lover’s face and knew he had killed a man (at least one) whilst I had slept. I know that it was not a fair thing to think, not a fair way to judge him. I know that he drove himself mad with guilt over what he had done and that he truly did not enjoy it and did not seek it out, but still the feeling remained, spurred on by the way he seemed to be more concerned over other matters rather than the dead young man before him.

“I-” he stuttered suddenly, catching me off guard. “I love you.”

He said it without any emotion in his voice, stoking further my feeling of disquiet so that I scowled in response to his declaration.

“Rosey?” he said softly, deadly. “I love you, Rosey.”

“Very well,” I said in lieu of a real response. “And I love you. Always. You know that.”

“You do not believe me?” he whispered accusingly, his voice dropping until it could barely be heard. “Last night, in your eyes, I saw your love. You believed me then. Today you do not. But you hold my hand all the same.”

“You say it differently to how you once did,” I told him, my own voice threatening to become raised as the anger bubbled forth. “As if by rote rather than desire.”

I do not know where such sentiments sprang forth from, it had not been something I had put words to before, and had not been, to my knowledge, something which had been festering greatly within me, but the words spewed forth all the same and I could not stop them, even as I saw Victor’s face begin to crumble, the shards of his impassive mask falling away to nothing until his fear and exhaustion were laid bare before me, as scarred as his torso, exposed by my accusations. I accused him of being reckless, of having no time for me, of being oblivious to Violette’s pain, of being selfish, of having some sort of death wish and of dragging others down with him. When I finally paused for breath the reality of what I had said hit me with such force that I thought I might vomit and my head began to pound mercilessly as I stared down at our still joined hands.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I do not know where any of that came from, I am sorry, Victor. I-”

“I’m sorry,” he echoed and my eyes prickled painfully as I saw the pain I had caused him.

“No.”   
“You’re right.”

“No.”

“You’re-”

“-sorry.”

“Sorry.”

“I just felt-”

“-too much?”

“Perhaps,” I nodded, squeezing his hand tighter, desperate to make him understand that I feared for him, but did not fear him. “I am sorry.”

“So am I.”

“I just felt-”

“-I know.”

“And sometimes-”

“-yes, me too.”

We let the silence stretch out between us, though it was no longer a hostile one, but my tongue refused to be still.

“You do not need me anymore,” I told him, and he blinked up at me in surprise.

“What?”

“You do not need me. I should have let you go, let you stay gone. You are your own man now, you do not need me to hold your hand.”

“Do you really think that?” he asked, his brow furrowing deeply as he stared into my eyes, the sharp angles of his face making him look like a bird of prey as he studied my features. “Oh my Rosey. Do you think I would be capable of anything if I had not spent years holding your hand? I learnt to be who I am by being with you. I doubt I would have learnt proper independence (as opposed to mere existence) if I had not experienced dependance and inter-dependance with you. Twinhood... it still lives within me. You must know that, surely?”

I looked closely at his eyes, trying to see what lay beneath the swirling blue, trying to read his emotions and intentions as I had used to do with relative ease, and eventually saw that he was in earnest, that he believed what he had said. I tried to give him a reassuring smile but it seemed to slip from my face too soon and he continued to gaze at me longingly, with a terrible sadness, and I did not know what to say.

As it was, Maria interrupted the loaded silence between us by returning to inform us that the men had arrived from the mortuary to take Thomas’s body and Victor was so beaten in mind and body that he allowed her to direct him back up the stairs to the house, going to his room without a single word of argument, and I followed, trying to understand how last night we had been dancing and laughing and as full of love as ever, and today full only of misgivings and distrust, hurt and disappointment. Looking back upon it I can simply assert that we were both in shock, that we were tired, exhausted and bereaved, but in that moment, as I lived it, my heart felt as if it had sustained a mighty blow, and that I had been the one to inflict it, and I could not understand any of my feelings, or what I could do to make things right.


	35. Chapter 35

When he reached our bed I watched as Bauer lowered himself slowly to the mattress, moving like a man much, much older than his thirty-seven years, and holding his injured arm close to his side. He let his head fall against the pillow with a groan and closed his eyes with a finality that suggested that he had no intention of moving again for some time. The shadows beneath his eyes were dark and long and they, combined with the shadows cast by his cheekbones, made him seem like some sort of tragic or terrifying spectre, anything but the living man I knew him to be.

I could not seem to stop myself from sighing as I too walked toward the bed but immediately regretted the action when I saw Victor’s face twitch as he perceived the sound as a rebuke. He looked so very miserable, and I regretted so much of what I said in the hospital ward, that I resolved to make it up to him somehow, to let him know that, despite my misgivings, I did still love him with so much of myself that without him I would barely exist. And so I sat carefully beside him and began to stroke his back, trying to ease some of the tension from his overworked muscles, avoiding his injured shoulder and focusing on his lower back until I felt the stress ebb out of him, the pain on his face lessening until eventually I realised that he had fallen asleep.

I removed his black, dancers shoes, the soles worn through and crusted with dirt and blood, as gently as I was able, followed by the patterned trousers that he still wore and took my time looking over his sleeping form. His legs, always so strong even when he was at his thinnest; his narrow waist which always seemed too enticing and confounding to be real; his surprisingly broad and strong shoulders; the tendrils of black hair that curled down his neck. He was achingly beautiful and it was with a measure of regret that I covered his sleeping body with a blanket before creeping quietly from the room and shutting the door behind me.

Violette and Lucia were in the kitchen when I arrived and a cup of coffee was pushed across the table to me, along with a small plate of sweetbreads left over from the previous night. I took a seat with them and ate appreciatively, gradually feeling more myself as my stomach was filled and my mind cleared. I gradually began to take notice of the conversation going on at the table as I drank my coffee, and learned that Victor had indeed succeeded in freeing the seventy prisoners, Jewish families who had been snatched from their homes and were to be sent north to the Risierea di San Sabba prison camp at the end of the Carnivale, and Lucia related the stories she had heard from them, that Victor had got them all to safety before going back for Thomas.

“He saved so many,” Violette murmured. “I took food to them this morning, to the children. They were so thin, Giu, it hurt to look at such pain.”

I nodded, understanding that she was, in her own way, reminding me that Victor had done more that night than murder a guard, that he had been doing his duty as he saw it, and had achieved his goal with only a single fatality. 

“I did hear tell that the guards were ready and waiting for them, though,” Lucia said, keeping her own voice low as she spoke. “That it is now suspected that the details of the General’s mission was leaked to them. It is a miracle that he managed to liberate them at all. I was on duty when they got back. Adriano was furious, kept berating him, demanding answers, but General Bauer gave him very few, only mumbling that he had killed too many, and that Adriano had better leave before he killed another.” She exhaled shakily as she looked up, her large, almond eyes strained and fearful. “I do not think I have seen him look so... dangerous. It was frightening.”

“And what of Adriano?” Violette asked quietly. 

Her tone was suspicious and suddenly I too began to suspect the man, for he had been sewing dissent and accusing anyone close to Victor of being a spy. He had known of at least half of the plans for last night and had been close to Thomas, he could have easily convinced the boy that he needed to know the plans in full. And instead of being grief stricken or shocked at returning to headquarters to the news of Thomas’s death, or relieved that at least the rest of the group had made it back without injury (save for Victor’s) and the prisoners rescued, Adriano had been angry. I wondered whether Victor suspected the man and then realised that a great deal of his inner anguish and self-doubt could have been due to the fact that he had trusted Adriano so entirely, and had confided in him on a great many things, including his relationship with me. 

“He has not been seen since Victor told him to leave,” Lucia informed us. “He headed up the attack on the ammunition store and so is expected to be managing the pick up tonight, I suppose. I was not one of the few who were given the details of these missions.”

“Neither was I,” Violette murmured.

“Nor I,” I agreed, and the two women blinked at the revelation for it was not often that I was uninformed of Victor’s movements. “He knew there was a spy,” I shrugged. “He did not want to inform us of the plan because to do so would be to add us to the list of suspects.”

“He knew?” Violette asked.

“Yes. And still took his men in,” I replied, but she shook her head.

“He still went in himself,” she retorted.

“Sometimes,” Lucia sighed dramatically. “I think that man has a death wish. At least he will be safe tonight. He will hardly be able to go galavanting about with his arm in that state. Seven stitches Maria said. That is not a graze, it went through his muscle, but he came in insisting it was a graze and it went untreated and uncleaned for hours whilst he insisted that every single prisoner he broke free was checked over.” She tutted to herself but then looked up suddenly. “Where is he, by the way?”

“Asleep upstairs. Why?” I asked anxiously.

“Because he needs to keep his arm elevated. And Maria only put a small bandage on, it will need to be changed soon. Bullet wounds too easily become infected. I do not want that wound getting infected.”

She said the words with a fierceness that startled me, until I saw Violette stiffen, her hand going, as if by its own will, to her arm, and then I understood the seriousness with which Lucia took such things. I nodded and began to make my way back up the stairs but not before asking that if they heard any news, of Adriano’s whereabouts or repercussions from the military or prison, they would tell us immediately. Both women nodded solemnly and I climbed the staircase with a growing sense of dread, for if Adriano was the spy, and could not be found, our location was compromised, along with the lives of every single Resistance member, as well as the seventy refugees we now had hidden, awaiting their escape from the city. Beyond the walls I could hear the sounds of celebration and music in the streets for, whatever was happening within our secret rooms, Carnivale carried on regardless. But even those sounds - which should have been merry and joyous - seemed ominous to me, and I realised that I needed to talk to Victor properly, to find out from him what had happened and what was intended for that night, for if he could not lead the escape, I would need to go in his stead. 

~

He was still asleep when I returned, lying on his stomach with his injured arm on the bed beside him, and so I rolled him carefully on to his side, propping the arm up in a way that I hoped Lucia would approve of, and gently brushing the hair from his face, trying to ascertain whether he was merely sleeping or if there was something more sinister going on. His skin was rather flushed but his breathing was deep and even, and so I lay down beside him, thinking to do little more than rest my weary limbs, only to wake up several hours later, to the sensation of soft lips pressing kisses to my neck.

I rolled closer, angling my head in order to capture those lips with mine and felt my Bauer hum his appreciation when I did so. His warm body was tight against to mine and I could feel the press of his erection against my thigh as we kisses, his body squirming and pushing against me as he became more and more aroused.

“Victor,” I gasped, pulling away, though his lips continued to assault my neck and cheek and ear as I tried to speak. “Victor, we must talk. I must talk with you... The events of last night... your plans for this evening... oh god!”

I tried to continue but his hand had slipped down to rub against my groin and I was swiftly too overcome with the sensation of it to think clearly and chose instead to let him do whatever he thought was best, which is what I had always done, I must confess. And so I lay pliant as he stripped my clothes from me and straddled my hips, thrusting his member against mine in a way that made me gasp and shudder. I felt, all too soon, the heat radiating from my stomach, the pull of my testes, the signs of my impending orgasm, but as my toes curled into the sheets beneath me suddenly the pressure was gone and Victor had moved down the bed, pushing my knees up and positioning himself between them, the bottle of olive oil in his hand and a look of lust and trepidation in his eyes.

“My Rosey,” he whispered huskily, sending another shiver down my spine. “I know we have not... have not been...” he hesitated, his hand tightening around the neck of the bottle whilst his other hand travelled unsteadily down the length of my thigh to grasp my erection, stroking it slowly as he searched for the words he needed. “I am sorry, Rosey. You must know that. I am sorry for my failings toward you, for the things I have done, for... everything.”

A tear slid down his cheek and I leant up to brush it away, even as he increased the pressure of the hand around my penis, causing my own hands to become unsteady. I tried to tell him that the apology was unnecessary, that I was sorry for ever saying such vile and unfounded things but he shook his head and turned to kiss my hand before I let it fall away from his face, trailing my fingers down his chest and stomach to his own hard member. A whine escaped his throat as I grasped it but I kept my pace slow and my grip loose, not wishing to get carried away, not when I knew there was something he wished to ask me. 

“What?” I breathed desperately. “What do you need? Tell me. Anything. What?”

“I feared I would die last night,” he told me in a small, choked voice. “Just for a moment, or two. It... that does not happen often. And it has made me rather unsteady I think, rather unsettled, but...”

“But?” I urged him, even as our hands continued to move in sync.

“It is nothing, really. I am so sorry, Rosey. I am so sorry. It just made me think of what we used to be, of the fact that we have changed, things have changed between us. And there are things we used to do, things that I have missed. Things...” he whined and arched his back as my fist tightened around him, because I felt I knew what he was trying to ask, though I did not know how I could help him get there and instead simply gave in to my desire to give him pleasure. 

“Tell me what you need?” I gasped, collecting the moisture at the head of his erection in my hand and spreading it down his length, loving the way it made his eyes close and his jaw drop.

“Oh please,” he sobbed. “I... I want to touch you... the way I used to do. I want... I want to be...” he keened desperately. “I want to be enveloped by you, to be... taken in and overwhelmed and... and... encompassed by you, inside you. Oh, please, Rosey?”

I pulled him down to me then, my free hand tangling in his sweat-slicked hair as I drew him in to a kiss filled with such passion and need and desperation that I feared it would finish us both. I poured as much of my love and consent into that kiss as I could and, when we stopped for breath, I nodded frantically against his cheek. He kissed down my chest and then dove downwards to take my erection in his mouth for a second, sucking hard before continuing down to nuzzle at my testes and then bite at my inner thighs, pushing them wider and settling himself once again between my legs, his eyes hungry and his chest heaving. 

The first stroke of his oiled finger against my most sensitive opening still caught me by surprise but as I gasped my body bore down against it and I felt his finger slip inside me, ripping a moan from the two of us at the stimulation we had both gone so long without. He prepared me quickly, pressing his finger in as far as it would go and then pumping it steadily until he judged that I was ready for another, twisting and separating his fingers in order to stretch me, and all I could do in response was pant and clutch at the sheets, urging him on with desperate pleas. I heaved a sigh that was almost a laugh when he began to drizzle the oil over me, anointing me as was his way, until my skin glistened and I begged him to enter me. And he did.

He was suddenly cautious, as he removed his fingers and shuffled into position, his eyes wide and water-colour blue and his lips a deep blood red. I lifted my hips, urging him on, and he pressed the head of his penis against me, using his thumb to guide himself inside, slipping in to me with a burning pressure that made my back arch and my mouth turn dry. He took a moment to steady himself and then slid all the way in to me, filling me until I thought I might burst, but then he stilled, breathing deep and ragged, and when I rocked my hips in an attempt to feel him all the more, to press his manhood against the bundle of nerves that had always turned my muscles to jelly and my bones to rubber, to indicate to him that I was ready, he let out a shuddering gasp and clutched at my thigh with bruising force.

“A moment, Rosey,” he panted. “Give me a moment. I do not wish this to be over too soon.”   
And I laughed at that, how could I do otherwise? Laughter which turned to sobbing, for that was our lives, our love, our affair - over too soon whilst we were caught up in the overwhelming sensation of it all. 

He lowered his body carefully over mine, until our chests were pressed together and I was able to bring my legs up to draw him further into me, and he shuddered as I did so, his muscles vibrating and each breath a gasp. We moved slowly, stretching out the time until I felt I would fly apart, my body so overwrought with the delicious friction, thrumming with the need that I felt from the very core of my being. He latched his mouth on to the base of my throat, sucking and biting, whilst his member delved into me, until I could take it no longer and began to increase our pace, pulling him tight to me and rocking my hips against his until I felt the heat begin to coil tightly, and his panting breaths become so irregular that I knew he was coming with me.

“Rosey,” he whined. “Oh god, thank you, Rosey. I love you. Oh!”

And with that his orgasm began and he bucked harshly into me, setting off my own climax, both of us gripping one another hard enough to leave bruises on hips and shoulders. I forced my eyes to open and gazed up at the man above me, at the ecstasy etched upon his face, at the glossiness of his lips, the flush of his cheeks, the shadow along his jaw, the sheer abandon. I can picture it still, and as my heart beat desperately and my body clenched around him, I fought back the tears that threatened to fall, and wished that I did not feel like I was losing him. 

He did not withdraw from me immediately for he seemed locked in his bliss and so I rolled him carefully back on to his side, easing myself away, my body still twitching as he slipped from me, and he mewled forlornly, his eyes still closed, and so I kissed him gently, softly, holding him carefully as his breathing returned to a steadier pace. It took me a moment to realise that the bandage that covered his latest injury was stained red and brown, and that the flush in his cheeks had not receded. I touched my hand to his forehead and realised that his skin felt hot, though could not tell whether it was from a fever or simply the result of our recent physical activities.

“Victor?” I asked him quietly, and it was a long, unsettling moment before his eyes opened and he replied to me.

“What is it, my Rosey? Are you alright?”

“I was about to put that question to you,” I told him gently, stroking his hair away from his face and looking into his eyes, which seemed to turned a pale, sandy, green.

“I am quite, quite fine,” he said with a smile. “Thank you so much and... I am sorry, Rosey.”

I shook my head and settled myself down closer to him, hoping that he would be content enough and relaxed enough to let me help him and tell me what I needed to know.

“Lucia says you should not go out tonight,” I told him. “With your arm in such a state, she does not think it would be wise. I think I probably agree.”

“Nonsense,” he said harshly, though his voice lacked any real strength. “I am fine. I only needed a rest. The escapees need to be sent on their way tonight, we cannot delay, there is no other option.” 

“But,” I argued, trying to keep my tone calm even as I felt my temper begin to rise in response to his stubbornness. “You do not need to go, surely. There are others who could go. Others who know the details. Or...” I took a fortifying breath before continuing. “Or you could let me go in your stead. Surely you know who was responsible for the leaked information, surely you know you can trust me, Bauer. Let me go and help, you need to rest.”

He looked at me for what felt like an age, his eyes narrowing as he seemed to see past my defenses and into my mind and heart. Eventually he let out a sigh, low and sad, as if he had found what he needed and was not heartened by it, but it only made me more desperate to prove that I could help him.

“Please, Victor,” I begged. “You cannot think that I am the spy?”

“No,” he said somberly. “I know you would not betray me. I only despair because I know that you truly would be willing to go into such a situation on my behalf. What have I made of you, my gentle, timid poet?”

“A better man,” I said without pause for thought, and he smiled at that, though it was not a happy one. “Perhaps,” I continued, determined not to lose the argument, “if you insist on going yourself - against your doctor’s orders - you will at least take me with you, to offer you what assistance I can. Please, Victor.”

He lay quiet for a time, his eyes downcast as he thought over what I had said before he finally nodded and agreed to the plan. 

“You will need to be stealthy, silent, sharp and steadfast, Rosey. There is no room for anxiety in such a situation. Will you promise me that you will take the orders I give you and act upon them without argument or faltering?”

“Yes, of course,” I said, the shock showing through in my voice at the harshness of his tone.

“I shall have to be the General tonight, Rosey,” he told me sternly. “I must be able to give orders and maintain a clear head and I must know that you shall not question me unnecessarily, Rosey. Do you understand?”

“I understand,” I replied with a frown. “It is only... you sound so much like your father when you speak so.”

The words were out of my mouth before I realised what I was saying but he did not react as I feared he might.

“I know,” he said slowly, closing his eyes and sighing deeply. “You are not the first to say so. And sometimes... I do wonder whether he would be... proud of me. Do you think so?” 

“Of course,” I told him, telling him what I saw he needed, though it broke my heart so thoroughly that I feared I would not be able to rise from our bed ever again. He simply gave another nod before moving to embrace me, only to cry out when the stitches in his arm pulled and caused him pain. 

“You must let one of the De Santis sister put a new dressing on your wound before you begin tonight’s action,” I told him firmly, sitting up and moving the arm carefully so that it was supported on his chest, and he gazed up at me with a wry smile on his lips.

“Better either of them than their mother,” he mumbled. “That woman is fierce with a needle and thread, I have learned to avoid her when I am in need of stitching.”

I chuckled and let my hand trail down to ruffle at his hair, enjoying the way he grinned at me from behind the dark locks, managing to look so much like the carefree young man I had fallen in love with all those years ago. And yet still I was fearful. Not for myself but because Lucia’s words, that Victor had a death wish and seemed to care so little for his own well-being, were stuck fast in my mind, and would not be silenced. And because he still, after so long, felt the need to please his father, even when the man was dead and gone. I had a love bite blossoming on my throat as a testament to his recklessness and he had a bullet wound to show for it as well, the violence with which his moods changed was frightening and there was something lurking behind his eyes that was unsettling, even if I could not quite say why. So much was riding on the success of that night’s plans but Adriano was nowhere to be seen, Victor had lost one of the few men who knew the details of what it was we were to do, and our leader was venturing into the field a wounded man.

But still I let him have his way, and it was our undoing.


	36. Chapter 36

We waited until the sun had set and the Carnivale lanterns lit before exiting Resistance Headquarters, but only just for the plans, carefully crafted over a matter of weeks as they had been, had now been changed. No one had seen or heard from Adriano for hours and I had seen nothing of my Bauer from the moment we stepped down from our bedroom haven and everywhere I looked there was panic and chaos. A consensus was quickly reached that the best course of action was to relocate, even if only temporarily, to ensure that any information Adriano might have passed on to the authorities would be useless and Bauer quickly set those plans into motion, seemingly everywhere at once and yet nowhere to be found. There was a great deal of talk about the sudden betrayal by one of our own and, though not a word was said against him, I know that Victor blamed himself and believed that he should have dealt with Adriano sooner, despite the fact that he too had been unaware that the man was a double agent.

I had very little to pack, having few belongings and only what clothing had been given to me during my stay, but spent several hours trying to decide which of Victor’s belongings should go along with us in the one bag he had set aside as his own. Essentials only, he had told me before disappearing off to organise the work happening elsewhere, and so I struggled to pack what I thought he might need, hoping that I did not forget anything important in my haste. I packed his clothes - the hideously ill-fitting suits, the cream shirts he never seemed to know how to button all the way to the collar and so left hanging open in a way that caught the eye of more people than he ever cared to realise, and the silk caftan that I had brought with me from Paris - all of it went into the carry bag, folded as tightly and neatly as I was able to. I wished to take with me as many of the paintings and sketched he had decorated our room with as I could, though I knew they were not among the essentials he had envisioned. Yet they were important to me, and so in they went, and I mourned the fact that I could not peel the wallpaper from the plaster walls and bring that too, for it was in itself a work of art, yet I could not indulge in such a whimsy, and so bid it goodbye, hoping that in time we would be able to return to our lately gotten home, once the fear of exposure passed.

Adriano’s treachery rankled horribly. Victor had been kind to him, encouraging and trusting and everything he ever had always wanted for himself in a friend, and Adriano had paid him back with lies and deceit. The shadow had been heavy in Victor’s eyes when he left me to organise his people that afternoon and it was as if a cloud truly had been cast over his person, as though a dark shadow loomed over him, and it hurt so very greatly to see him so wounded. 

Violette confessed to me her fears for him as we carried our meagre belongings down to the florist’s side entrance where everything was loaded onto carts, hidden under piles of freshly cut daisies from Signora De Santis’s garden. 

“Watch over him,” she told me solemnly. “He is not himself, I feel it as well as you do, there is darkness brewing within him, Rosey, and he must not be allowed to give in to it.”

I nodded my agreement and yet she continued to watch me with wary eyes.

“I know,” I told her, trying to seem calm though I felt nothing of the sort. “Believe me, Violette, I know. I could not persuade him to remain indoors tonight but I shall be with him at least and you must know that I have no intention of letting him out of my sight. I know that he blames himself for Adriano’s actions, for us all having to pack up and leave, for Thomas’s death. I know he does, I have seen it in him. But he shall not go through that grief alone. Not this time. I would rather die than let him suffer alone.”   
Violette made a show of agreeing with me, of seeming to be mollified by my words, and yet I could see the fear still lurking in her eyes, and the worry. For I am, at my core, a failure, and always have been. And yet it was with unfounded confidence that I sought out the man I loved that evening, having packed our own belongings and then my printing supplies from the office. The war room looked strange without its maps, and the clutter which had always seemed so near to overwhelming it now tidied away. Many of our documents had already been burned, anything that was not absolutely necessary destroyed in order to make the move easier, and the smell in the air was heavy and cloying. It looked strangely like a school room - our desks in rows and our leader’s desk at the far end - but I knew that if or when it was discovered it would be known for what it was, and so we destroyed all evidence of ourselves in the hope that our identities, and our lives, would remain safe.

Victor had tidied his own corner at some point, though I had not seen him, and it made my insides clench with fear to see his workspace bare, to see even the portrait gone, the one he had so lovingly created, the one by which I had been first recognised. My heart ached all the more as I recalled that it had been Thomas and his companions who had found me and recognised me. I began to fear that I had never properly thanked him for what he had done for me, for the fact that he had saved my life. I had seen him countless times, had exchanged many words with him, had watched as he grew and laughed and dared so much. But had I ever thanked him properly for what he had done? I still do not know the answer.

Having seen that the war room was empty I sought out the General in the hospital wing, only to be swept up in the barely organised chaos which was the packing of that operation. There were three patients in the ward, plus the recently freed prisoners, and it seemed a monumental task to dismantle the one part of the Resistance headquarters which had always seemed so permanent. I quickly went in search of Signora De Santis and was glad to have done so when I looked upon her frantic expression. I could not be of great use to her but offered her my embrace, which she entered into willingly, hugging me tight until her breathing began to calm.

“Oh, my Rosa,” she mumbled against my chest, using the strange nickname I had acquired in my time there. “It cannot be done. I do not know how to do this. And I am tired.”

It was a sentiment that I had heard several times already that day and one which I felt so strongly within myself, that the end was sweeping toward us with a horrible finality. And it frightened me, for to hear such words from those who were stronger in spirit and mind than I made it seem like only a matter of time before everything we had worked for was lost.

“What can I do?” I asked her eventually, looking at the boxes of bandages and supplies that still needed to be moved and at the nurses and doctors rushing to tend to their patients and find their own belongings all at once. “Can I lift? Can I carry? Tell me what to do, hermana?”

“Find him,” she told me. “We are all more confident, more sure, when he is here. Find our General.”

I nodded, though I must admit that I would have preferred any other task, for I had no clue where else I might find him. Yet I went, leaving my packed bag - with all of my and Victor’s worldly possessions - in the care of the Signora. I walked back up through the warren of passageways and stairs and basements until I arrived at the side door, where a cart stood, ready to take the next load of cases and boxes to one of several abandoned warehouses and homes on the eastern edge of the city. I checked that the alley was clear save for the two men loading the cart and arranging the flowers carefully over it, before walking out toward the bustling street, but had barely emerged when I was pushed back into the shadows by a group of young men.

“Leave him, it is Rosey,” I heard a harsh whisper, at which point I realised that one of the men before me was the very man I had gone to seek.

Victor’s eyes were hidden in shadow, his lips thin and serious and his hair was slicked back, long enough finally to be tied with its long accustomed ribbon. The men with him I recognised as the same men who had been with Thomas on the day I had been found and I thought how fitting it was that Victor had chosen them to accompany him, and saw in their faces that they burned with grief and rage and a desire for vengeance. They were breathing hard and I looked at them questioningly before Victor gave them an order and sent them back underground.

I gave him a questioning look but he simply scowled at me for a moment and then looked away.

“They volunteered and I could not say no,” he said in a low voice. “We moved forward the rendezvous with the White Patrol. The weapons have been delivered safely and already on their way out of the city. I have no doubt that the police will be in attendance tonight, ready to ambush us, but we shall not be there.”

“You could have told me,” I said, matching the volume of my voice to his.

“There are many things I could have told you, my love,” he murmured. “Now is not the time for such a discussion. Perhaps later.”

I huffed in frustration but dropped my line of questioning, knowing I would gain nothing from the action. 

“They need you,” I informed him instead. “Inside, they need you to guide them before they fall in to chaos.”

He snorted at that, a laugh that held no humour but which brought a smile to my lips all the same, for he was constantly needed, by everyone, and it drained him horribly. 

“There is only one hour until sunset. Our priority must be the prisoners. Other things can wait until later tonight, or tomorrow. Get them organised to leave as soon as the lanterns are lit. The original plan was to wait until the hour was late but we cannot take the chance that Adriano knew our movements.”

He looked up at me then, his eyes dark and intense, before grabbing my shirt front roughly and pulling me down and in to a roughly passionate kiss, biting at my lower lip and reaching into my hair with his free hand to grasp a handful of grey curls. He did not pull back even when we became aware of the shuffling sounds of the men preparing the cart for departure, even when it was clear that they had seen us, and I began to panic, trying to move back, yet he kissed me still and eventually I submitted to him completely. He did not pause until the cart had passed us, until we were completely alone, and when he did his cheeks were red and his eyes were wide and wild. 

“Sorry,” he gasped, but I shook my head.

“No need.”

“I only needed-”

“I know.”

“We must do this, Rosey,” he whispered, his voice so close to a sob that it brought a prickle to my eyes. “We must follow Fate’s decree, it is the only way. We are being pulled toward this, this something, can’t you feel it? I feel it with the same certainty that I felt the night we met. We are here in this moment by Fate’s decree and we must play our parts. Even though it may not end well.”

We lapsed into silence, gasping for breath as we recovered ourselves, his hands still gripping my shirt and my scalp, my body aching for him and leaning in to his touch.

“I feel it,” I told him, for the sense of foreboding was tangible enough to almost taste, the feeling that we were moving with a tide, pulled whether we wished to go or not, and I felt too, with equal strength, that whatever we were being dragged toward was, it would not end positively.

“I love you,” he whispered as he pulled me down for another kiss and this time I did not hesitate to respond, nodding desperately as I pressed my lips to his, feeling the scratch of his fingernails against my scalp and fighting to hold back the moan that rumbled in the back of my throat as his tongue entered my mouth. 

We parted eventually, straightening our clothes and breathing raggedly as Victor bid me go and prepare the escapees for a speedy departure. He himself went to calm the medical staff, reassuring those he saw, giving orders and advice and suggestions to those who came to him, restoring an orderly flow to the proceedings with seemingly no effort whatsoever. I did as I was bid, as always, and so, by the time the lanterns were lit and that night’s celebrations had begun, we were ready to move.

~

The secret removal of the seventy liberated prisoners was surprisingly uneventful. We led them through the city in groups of ten or twelve and in the throng of people we travelled with ease, the family groups completely unremarkable among the holiday makers. I kept Victor in my sights at all times, as he moved along with the first group and two hundred paces behind me the next group did the same, and despite the danger inherent in our actions I could not help but smile as I watched my Bauer walk along with a child on his hip and another hanging from his coat. When we reached the meeting point a truck was waiting for us and the families were loaded in with as much care as haste would allow and then, just as quickly, they were gone. They would be taken, Victor told me, as far as Genoa, where, he hoped they would be cared for by the Resistance movement in that city.

“It is the best we can do for them,” he murmured as we watched the vehicle trundle out into the darkness. “And is at least taking them as far as we can manage from the gestapo. An Italian prison is bad enough, but the Germans...”

I saw him shiver and swallowed the fear that threatened to bubble forth from my stomach.

“What has become of the world?” I mumbled as we walked back through the city and heard him sigh quietly beside me, a sigh that was old and worn and so nearly beaten. 

“I know. It is a darkness that I can no longer see an end to. But at least this particular ordeal is nearly done with. I feared it would be the end of us, if I am honest. My god, Rosey, I feared the worst.”

I nodded my agreement and felt his hand slip into mine, squeezing my fingers tightly.

“Life is never allowed to be simple, is it?” I asked suddenly, feeling my feet begin to drag as the weight of my melancholy hit me square in the chest. “Even when our only worry was whether there would be enough money for coffee and wine. Even then, even in the safety of our home... even in Paris.”

“Paris,” he laughed breathily. “God, I barely remember it.” 

There was a touch of mania in his voice when he laughed next but I simply held his hand tighter, knowing how greatly he was hurting, both in his heart and body. I could see the stain on his coat sleeve that indicated that he had damaged his stitches but knew that he would not complain of it, even if it caused him distress, out of a belief that he somehow needed to be all things to all people, that he needed to be above reproach and perfect. His voice, when he continued to speak, seemed giddy and I wondered whether he had taken anything for the pain at all, and whether he had eaten in the last day and night, but knew there was no point in asking. It was just another way in which I had failed to care for him, I knew, but I resolved to do better once I had him safely home again, to show him that I did love him. 

“Thinking of Paris...” he continued. “It seems so absurd. We loved it so, it was sacred, it was... it was Art! And yet now it seems so small, so utterly silly. Our problems were so petty and yet the artists there squabbled as if they discussed the great struggles and tragedies of the world. How little we knew... and now... The world is so much bigger, and so much darker, than they could possibly realise. And sometimes, Rosey... oh god, sometimes I-”

But there his words ended, for we had turned the corner and come back in view of our home, or what was left of it. All around us people were running, screaming, calling out for water and help and missing loved ones but for a long count of moments we two were stuck fast, unable to look away from the horror that I can barely bring myself to put words to.

The entire street seemed ablaze and most of the buildings were hidden behind clouds of thick, black smoke but through all of that I could see the flames darting and flickering out of our bedroom window, and more blazing through the lower windows, windows which I knew to belong to Maria, Lucia, their mother, and Violette. Of the women themselves there was no sign though there were others who I recognised, the people we had worked with and lived alongside, their faces fearful as they rushed to control the blaze. Bauer moved forward but I was frozen in place by what I saw and he tugged at me, to force me to either keep up with him or free his hand from my grip, but I could not bare to lose him, and so stumbled along behind him, my lungs already burning from the smoke and the panic. I tried to search for our friends, for any sign of hope or what had started the disturbance, though I had my suspicions as to how the fire had started. Suspicions which were confirmed when, through the black smoke and screams came the heart stopping sound of gun fire. 

The screams doubled in volume, the crowd around us seemed to heave and sway, crushing and trampling those who fell, and tears began to fall from my eyes as I struggled to cope with the cacophony of sound and colour and the pain and fear which had poisoned the air. But I was pulled forward still by Bauer until suddenly we were at the entrance to the flower shop, but found that we could not enter, our way blocked by soldiers with rifles aimed at the crowd and at the burning building. In the shop’s doorway I could see the bodies of those who had tried to flee the fire, a fire which I have no doubt had been deliberately set to eradicate the Resistance, just as the governor had been boasting to do. 

I hated myself for the relief I felt when I saw that Violette’s body was not among the fallen but there was little room for the emotion because Victor, upon seeing what had been done, continued to run forward, his hand slipping free of mine as if it had lost its substance, and I watched as he darted forward to the doorway and then looked back with a look of devastation on his face.

“Rosey!” he called to me, though the words seemed blurred and far off. “Rosey. There are people in here!” 

~

I have sat at my desk for what feels like hours, staring at the page before me, at those words, trying to conjure up some way to describe the way he said them, trying to put words to the desolation and pain and brokenness that filled his voice, and his face, as he looked up at me, the fire raging at his back. But I cannot. I simply watch again and again the moment when he looked up and yelled to me... and then I hear the sound of the rifle fire, and watch his eyes widen as the bullet hit his leg.

I remember that I screamed and ran forward as he began to fall, only to be forced to the ground from the force of the bullet that hit my shoulder. I remember trying to rise and failing. And I remember hearing a call going out that Victor was the man, that he was to be kept alive and taken for questioning. I remember seeing the face of Adriano as he stepped forward to identify him, nodding curtly before Victor was dragged away. I remember how Victor continued to struggle, even as he was beaten with the butt of the soldier’s rifle, and the last thing I remember is his face as he looked at me one last time, frantic with fear and pain. He reached out to me, his hand covered in dirt and ash and blood, but I could not go to him. I watched as he screamed my name, the last words I heard from his lips, ‘Gui Rosey’, and then tears filled my vision, followed quickly by a creeping darkness, as he was dragged roughly away, his cries and howls ringing in my ears even after I could no longer see him. 

The building continued to burn, wood from the frame falling around me, but I had been unable to move to save him, and could not move to save myself. Instead I gave in to the pain, both the pain in my shoulder and the pain in my heart, for that was the last time I saw him, my Victor Bauer. My sweet, funny, gentle, mischievous, unknowable, intelligent Bauer. He had been my life and he was gone. And so I closed my eyes against the pain and carnage around me, and I prayed for death.


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note/Warnings: This is very nearly the end and I am debating whether a final epilogue is necessary, to tie up the loose ends and give closure on other characters and who the student was who Rosey wrote to, or whether that would just be me being too indulgent. Still not sure. Also, warnings in this chapter of suicidal thoughts and self-harm and death. Yeah, sorry about that. Thank you for reading.

My dearest young friend,

I am so sorry. I fear now that I should never have begun this tale, should never have told you such things. I had hoped, when I began, to give you some reassurance, knowing that you were struggling with your sexuality and identity. I thought, perhaps, that I could show you that you were not alone, that we have always existed, and I thought that I could simply write a few pages about my time with Victor by way of demonstration. I was supposed to simply write of the young artist with whom I had a passionate affair. I had not thought I would write so much, or go in to such detail. I had not planned on saying so much. Now I fear I have done more harm than good. Now, I fear, I have brought you needless pain by recounting those memories and emotions which I thought I had put away from me years ago.

For at this moment I am watching you from my balcony as you sit weeping in the garden, reading the pages I wrote overnight. I am sorry. And, as exhausted as I am I cannot return to my bed, for I fear what dreams and nightmares may be waiting for me when I close my eyes, and because I cannot leave the story there, without offering you what little closure that I can.

I would like to give you a proper account of what became of me after that night. To do so would, I am sure, provide the closure which both of us need. But the truth is and will always be that I am not sure of many of the details. I was dragged away to be buried, at least, that was the story given, and was then carted out beyond the city’s limits. But instead of being placed in a pit with the other fallen Resistance members I, along with the few others who had survived, was taken to a small village near the mountains. My wounds were cared for, or so I understand, but I have no memory of it, and eventually I ended up in Switzerland, loaded onto another cart and smuggled there as if I were something precious and rare rather than the breathing corpse that I was. I am told that for a month I did little more than stare blankly at the wall when awake and scream while I slept but eventually my soul seemed to return to my body, though there was little left of either.

My first conscious memory was of the cracked plaster of the hospital wall opposite me and then a vague outline of a woman’s face. She moved close to me, checking my eyes and brushing my hair from my forehead and asking me something. I could not understand her and so moved my head and attempted to ask her to repeat the question. I made no real words but my mumble was enough to make her gasp and run from my side, returning a minute later with several others, one of whom I recognised. My vision was still not entirely clear but the almond eyes of Maria De Santis were too familiar to be missed and her smile when she saw the recognition in my own eyes was tired but genuine. It was long road back to health for me, my body was no longer young and healing took time, and my mind was plagued with memories and visions, but I did my best and hid the pain as well as I was able, though the periods of dizziness, trembling and panic were even more extreme than they had used to be.

Maria did not confront me about what had happened that night and I asked her very few questions in return when I saw her, except to learn that she had aided my escape. She had found work with the American Office of Strategic Service who ran their secret operations from what was once a monastery in the hills of Campione and it was their small hospital that housed me. Eventually I regained my strength, though I could not walk without a limp, or without pain, due to burns that covered both of my legs, and the muscles around my left shoulder continued to pull and spasm and inhibit my movements as a result of the bullet which had hit me that night. I tried to recover, knowing that there was little room for a man who was naught but a burden, knowing it was my duty to recover, but each night the dreams came, plaguing me, reminding me, and suddenly, one night, I could not take it.

My room, an old cell that had once housed a monk but had long stood empty before I came to occupy it, held very little other than my bed, a chair and a small table, but on the table stood a water glass and so I took it and smashed it on the stone floor, scooping up the largest shard of glass to act as my weapon before I turned on my own arms with a viciousness that I cannot justify. No thought went through my head as I did it, no desire for death, only a need to make the noise in my head and the pain in my heart stop. But I failed even at that and it was not long before I was discovered, cleaned, bandaged and put back to bed, this time with a tin cup by my bedside instead of a glass one. Little was said about it, little was said about anything, except that Maria told me that if I tried it again I could end up in an asylum, and that she did not want that to happen, for I was all that she had left.

She visited me daily, though we did not speak often, for what was there left to say? until one day Maria brought with her an American officer who offered me a job. His name was First Lieutenant Moore and he had heard rumours that I had some experience in spying and so suggested that I might be able put my skills to use in aid of the Allied Forces. I agreed, for I had nothing else to live for, but requested, when asked if there was anything he could do for me, to know what had become of a close friend of mine, of one Victor Bauer. He agreed but warned me not to hold out much hope, for Victor had been at the forefront of the Italian Resistance in Milan and was likely to have faced torture upon capture. More than that, he was an anti-fascist, Austrian-born Frenchman of Jewish descent. His likelihood of survival was slim.

And so I passed the war, working for an antiques dealer as a cover for my information gathering and traveling the length of Yugoslavia and back again and then throughout the Alps, returning to the OSS in Campione at regular intervals with whatever I had, ever hopeful for word of Victor, yet ever disappointed. I watched the first bombing of Milan by Allied forces and found myself crying even as the American soldiers around me cheered, for they saw only the conquest of their enemy, a goal achieved in the fight to end the war - I saw the place that had been my home fall to fire once more. I was informed that, if Victor had been alive before then, the chances that he was still living after that were so slight that they were non-existent.

I have so few memories of those days. I recall no conversations or thoughts. I recall Moore’s surname but no others. I cannot bring to mind any faces. There is nothing. I do not know how the time passed. I know that I did a great deal, spoke to many people, worked hard and was often in situations that were hostile and could have led to my death. I cannot tell you anything about them. Perhaps that was the secret to my success, that I seemed far too bored and unconcerned with my life and with the world to be a spy. Spies are supposed to be intelligent and have sharp eyes and quick bodies. I was none of those things. I was a useless, limping failure of a man and barely knew how to speak to others without shaking and stuttering. Which, strangely, meant that they told me a great deal, or at least boasted a great deal when I was in their presence. Everything I heard I wrote down and sent back to the Lieutenant and whenever he saw me he seemed pleased with my efforts but I do not even know who I was gathering information about or for whom, save that my new employers fought against the same enemy that Victor had been so adamantly opposed to.

Living for me became the emotional equivalent of hearing a tap dripping in another room. It was as if I were in a house, an icy house, early on a cold, winter’s morning, the sort of cold that makes you feet and fingers and nose numb and wet, and you have no wish to move save that you can hear the constantly dripping tap and so you shuffle listlessly from room to room, searching for the source of the sound but never drawing near to it and with no idea what you will do when you find it because you know that the tap cannot be turned any tighter. It is a strange way to visualize how I felt, I know, but that is the closest I can come to describing it. I was apathetic and leaden, torpid and sluggish and yet at the same time in constant motion, unable to stop. That metaphorical dripping seemed to be sending me insane but I could not summon the will to do anything about it.

And then came the day when Maria sought me out to tell me that Mussolini was dead and that his body was being taken to Milan. She had always been a good, sensible woman, lacking the fiery temper of her sister and the outgoing nature of her mother, but with a sharp mind and kind heart. She was a good doctor, a good person, but the war had altered her and she told me the news as if she were informing me that there was a chance of rain tomorrow and I should keep that in mind and perhaps take an umbrella with me should I leave the house. She had faced a great deal of skepticism from our American allies, as a female doctor, as well as unwanted amorous attention and, though we did not speak often, she was always in my company when I was in Campione and it was eventually accepted that there was an agreement between the two of us. I let the rumour spread because I could not imagine going to such an effort to argue against it and because it allowed her a small measure of security, and surely I owed her that.

The news of Mussolini’s death meant little to me and, when she said it, seemed to mean little to her, but it was not long before the tears overwhelmed her and I gathered her into my arms, holding her and wishing that there was something I could do, something more that I could do to comfort her, and wishing that she was someone else. Milan had been her home for her entire life, she had traveled twice down to the coast, to visit her mother’s family in the south, but that was all. Milan had been everything to her, her home, where her family had lived, where she had trained and worked as a doctor, where her father and brothers were buried, and now there was a chance that she could return, to begin her life there again, and she wanted to go there desperately, and yet was terrified. More than that, Mussolini had been in control of her country for as long as she could remember, for twenty-three years, well over half of her life, and for all that time her family had opposed his government. And now he was dead, and she had no family to celebrate with. I think that she came close to asking me to return with her, so that she did not have to make the journey alone, but my body began to shake and I was forced to sit down, breathing hard through my nose as I fought against the bile that sought to burst forth from my stomach, for I could not face Milan again, could not make myself do it, even for my last remaining friend.

A week later the war was apparently over and she hugged me one last time before leaving with a small force of American soldiers who were heading to Milan to help with the ‘clean up’ as they called it. She asked me for an address, so that she could write to me if she needed to (if she found her mother or sister or Violette, the question implied) but I had none to give and so she said that she would send any letter to me to the monastery in Campione until I wrote to inform her of any change. I agreed but had no intention of writing, for I had nothing to say. Lieutenant Moore came to bid me farewell with a similar entreaty, telling me that I was free to return to my home and asking where that was, but I did not know. So he too left and I found myself continuing to work for the same company that had provided cover for me during the war, traveling to manor houses and castles which had been abandoned or which were in need of finances, in order to value and purchase their antiques and heirlooms at unfair prices. I returned to Campione at least once a year but did not expect any mail, and did not receive any, from Maria or anyone else, for over ten years.

I did not think of him. I refused. I forbid myself from thought and imagination and memory. I did not pick up a pen to write more than a receipt during that time, nor did my mind conjure up any rhymes, verses or picturesque descriptions. I did not dream, did not reminisce, did not hope, did not think, did not look toward the future or the past. I was no longer a poet, or a spy, or a freedom fighter, or a Surrealist - I was a retailer, a resaler, a lackey - and not a very good one, I think. The episodes of vertigo and shaking from which I suffer came regularly, too intense for me to contain, often accompanied by vomiting, ending only after I had lost consciousness. Several times I was robbed during such fits and my employer kept me on only because of a misplaced belief that I was a war veteran and hero. I became another man. I knew nothing of myself, thought nothing, did nothing other than what I was told. I tried twice more to end my life, but my attempts were half hearted I think, like an exercise that my body went through when the emotions began to bubble too close to the surface. I would cut myself open, allow myself to be stitched back up, and only then feel numb enough to continue living once more.

Until one day, in the Spring of 1958, when I returned to my bedsit above the warehouse in Campione, a small package awaited me, forwarded on from the hospital, bearing a French stamp. And inside was a book, old but well-kept and in good condition. A small, neat, blue covered book baring only the title:

_“... With Love.”_

And at the very sight of it I panicked.

Within was a note from the publisher informing me that an enquiry had been made about the republishing of my book and that they wished to know if I was still at this address. They had sent me a copy, thinking I might like to see it after so many years and ask my permission for the reprinting. It was a simply worded letter but I did not trust it, for several reasons. The only person who knew to send letters to my location was Maria De Santis; I had given my work to the publishing house to do with as they pleases and therefore they had no need to request my permission to print a second edition; and my full name did not even feature anywhere in the book. My suspicions were aroused but my fear also, and I left the book by the front door where I had unwrapped it and climbed into my bed, not wishing to deal with such thoughts, and the memories associated with that small, forgotten book of poems.

I did not sleep. I spent the night staring at the cardboard cover and cheap paper, expecting it to come alive and suddenly attack, and the next morning, when I crawled from my blankets and across the floor to where it still lay, I was a shaking wreak of a man and could barely focus on the words of the short letter, or the words written on the cover. I opened it cautiously, as if it might still grow teeth and lunge at me, but it did worse than that. For written on that first page was my dedication _“... with love... for my Bauer. Always.”_ And beneath it was another word, hand written, recently written. The word _“Always”_ in a messy, flourishing script that I did not wish to recognise.

I wept over that word. I wept until I was sick and then fetched the vodka from my cupboard and drank until I was sick again. I could not cope, could not process the possibility. And so I did nothing. The package had been waiting for me for a handful of months already, there could be no harm or gain in delaying my response by a few more days, and so that is what I did. I spent my month’s wages on more vodka and I drank until it was gone. And when it was gone, at the end of that week, I wrote a brief letter to state that I had indeed been the author of the work but did not expect to have a say in its reprinting, giving my address and requesting where that particular copy had been sourced, as I had only ever seen one other copy, and that was not it. I spent a day debating with myself as to whether I should ask one other question but eventually my curiosity and my need overcame me and I added to the letter an enquiry as to who had written the extra inscription within.

I sent it off before I had a chance to question my actions but could find no peace in the aftermath. I had been forced to remember and the pain in my chest caused me to collapse in the street the following day as I ventured out for food. When I woke, days later, I was informed that I had suffered a minor heart attack but I hardly know whether to believe such a diagnosis. Surely it was no more than my depression and self-destruction. I was instructed to rest but that was simply not an option, for I had no money, no savings, and the room I called home was only mine to use whilst employed by the company it was attached to. So I ventured forth again, traveling through the Alps and returning after three months, this time to a letter under my door. I read it but did not reply and, when after another three months I returned again, there was a second letter. They were short, the letters, only a single sheet each, but they took a very long time to read, and a great deal of alcohol. The envelopes were always addressed in a different hand, a neater hand, but the letters within were in the achingly familiar handwriting of Victor.

Reading them was like speaking with a ghost. His writing was often disjointed or vague and on occasion I have wondered whether they were some sort of hoax, a cruel joke upon me, but I know that they were not. He wrote mostly of our time together in Nice, of the joy we had found there, but his words were strange, they were not the sort that he would have written when we knew one another. The voice of those letters was timid, childish even, but underlined with a deep sadness that even his happiest memories could not seem to ease. He wrote nothing of what had befallen him, nothing of where he was living, how he had come to be free. It hurt so much to read but in a very strange way it helped me to come to terms with losing him, for I finally began to accept my loss, to think back on that night and what had happened to us both, to realise that I could not have saved him, that it had not been my fault or his, and that I would never get him back.

I did not wish to reply to him but hated the thought of his disappointment at not receiving a response and so, finally, I sat down and wrote back. I poured out my love to him, wrote to him of every early memory I had of our time together, of watching him paint, of the beauty that always radiated from him, of the feel of his skin, of how proud I was of him that first evening that we went out hand-in-hand. I reminded him of the time that he stood upon a table whilst drunk at a bar, making jokes about the queen of England, and the time we danced cheek to cheek, and the way he used to burn his fingers trying to light our temperamental stove. I could not help but ask him what had happened to him since we had last seen one another but tried to make it seem of little importance, couching the questions in compliments and affection, for I did not wish to cause him pain. His mind seemed altered, or so it appeared by the style of his writing, and I did not wish him to relive whatever horrors he had survived, but at the same time I felt compelled to ask, to know what had occurred.

I signed my letter: _“With love, Your constant Rosey. Always.”_ and sent it before I could change my mind. I felt strangely light when it was done, calmer, more myself than I had been in years, and went so far as to tidy my room before the melancholy began to creep over me again. I travelled for only a month after that, hurrying home with excitement in my heart at the prospect of correspondence and I was not disappointed for upon the doormat was a thick envelope and a letter of several pages of messy script that made my heart ache and yet did not immediately make me reach for the cheap spirits which made up such a large part of my diet.

He had begun the previous two letters with the words, _“To my dear Monsieur Rosey,”_ but this one was addressed to: _“My dear ever-constant Rosey”_ and was full of affection and something akin to the man I had once known. I am strangely reticent to show these letters to you, to do so seems somehow more revealing than writing of the physical acts of our love, and so I shall transcribe it here in part, if I can.

 _“I am so sorry, my Rosey_ (he wrote) _for all that you suffered, for what befell you. I loved you so fiercely. I love you still. I am sorry you were stolen from me, that I had not the chance to grow old with you as I always hoped. I wish that we were still in possession of the crab phones that we fashioned, do you remember those? I am sure they could cross such distance, could connect us. But they are gone, I suppose. Everything is gone now._  
 _I do not talk of those years, do you know, because when I have tried it has made the people who heard my words rather upset, but you have asked me, and I can deny you nothing, and besides, perhaps writing shall be easier than talking. Perhaps I should apologise now, in case I write something which does not agree with you. Will you forgive me, my Rosey, my dearest one, for all that befell me?_  
 _I spent some time at first still in Milan, at the San Vittore Prison, but not in any part that I had previously broken in to. I suppose they knew me. They kept me underground instead. They asked many questions, in a wide variety of ways, but I convinced myself to unlearn the answers they were looking for after a while, and so was no use to them, and told them nothing. They took things from me. They hurt me. My feet - my fingers - I - they ... I cannot -_  
_I fear am not so easy on the eye as your letter seems to suggest that I was all those years ago. They kept me in the dark, in the very dark, for a very long time. I could not_  
 _But then there were explosions and fire and I was able to count the nights by the sounds of destruction and then the guards fled but they did not unlock the door and no one unlocked the door Rosey and when they finally did it was not for freedom but for a new prison. Risiera di San Sabba. I believe they thought I was someone other than I am for they asked a great many questions, and did so much, so many things, to me, my body, to try and get answers. I recited for them my mother’s prayers in response to their demands and so they allowed me the job of carrying the corpses to the furnace rather than joining them in the oven. Then there was more fire, more death, and then they too were gone, and we were called free and expected to go on our way._  
 _I am sorry. I have written too much, things you do not want to read and_  
 _I still wait for you to finish my sentences, do you know. Still expect to feel the squeeze of your hand in mine. But you never shall, never again. I know. You are dead and I write these letters to a ghost. I even thought that I had received a reply from you, a beautiful thing full of love and memories and it brought such joy to my heart, but now I cannot find it anywhere. For how could you reply? It was a small consolation, a tiny shed of comfort, that at least you had died and they could not do to you what they did to_  
 _I miss you so. But even if you were living I do not think I could bear to have you see me. Though I long to see you, oh my beautiful Rosey, I could not live if you were to see what I have become. Such a vain creature I am. I used to revel in the way that you gazed at my form, at the press of your hands against my skin, as if you worshipped me. Childish fool that I was. But you did love me. You did? I found a copy of your poems. Not my copy, another copy, and I signed it for you and she said she would send it off to you, as if she could send a book of poems to the underworld. Did it find you, my dear, beloved, constant Rosey? I hope so. I hope that you know what your love has meant to me._  
 _It gave me the thought to write to you, simply so that I might not be so alone. I try to paint, it is only water and colour and lines now on paper, and when I mumble to myself about the form or the colour they look at me strangely, so I try to hide what we all know, that I have lost myself, slipped almost completely from a mind that was never quite secure to begin with._  
 _I miss you. But I am gad that you cannot see me. I am as dead to the world as you are in my way. It is for the best, I think. I only wish I could have laid bougainvillea at your grave, for it grows here, up the wall by my window. I wish I knew where you lay so that I could send some now. Who will know to do the same for me? It will be my turn so soon. Who will leave flowers for me to remind of the night I found my twin, my ‘found remembrance of spiritual love’, of complete love, who will there be to hold my hand? I miss your hand in mine...”_

He signed it: _“With all the love in the world, always and forever, your Victor”_.

I cannot say that it broke my heart, for my heart had been broken beyond repair long, long ago, but it certainly broke something within me and I cried as I have never done before or since. I did not write back, for now I knew it would be a cruel thing, to reveal myself to him, when he had believed me dead all those years, and when he seemed so close to his own end. I wondered about the injuries he had sustained, and what had been done to him to make him ashamed of his appearance. I had met enough people in my travels who had survived the Nazi prison camps to know that torture had been commonplace and felt sick at the thought of my dearest, my beloved, going through such things. I waited a month, and then two, but no more letters came and, at the end of a third month I came to feel that something had changed, something had lifted from the remains of my soul. I woke up one morning and the sun was shining weakly through the window and I felt the desire to write. And so I did. I wrote some simple verses, reflections about the colour and feel of the day, of the creak of the floor and the condensation on the water jug and, when I was done, I wrote a short letter of resignation to my employers, thanking them for the years they had given me, and informing them of my decision to return home.

They gave me their blessing and even paid my way to Paris by train and upon my arrival I was able to find a small room to rent and a position in an auction house, cleaning and preparing items for show. In my spare time I wrote and wrote and began to reacquaint myself with the city. I learned after a time, from someone who was very surprised to see me alive, that many had believed me to have died, or at least disappeared without a trace. Apparently, the story went, I had arrived in Marseille, had been seen exiting the train station there even, but never checked in to my room and was never seen of heard from again. It was amusing and meant that, a year later, when I set about publishing a new book of poetry, my name drew more attention than it probably deserved. I was a dead surrealist come back to life, a story which was intriguing and delightful to many, for it seemed so in keeping with what they understood surrealism to be by that time.

I had tried to return to the house where we had once lived, wondering if the contents of the basement were still intact, but it had all been destroyed by then, either during the war or in the fifteen years since. I tried not to think too often about what had been lost but I know that a large amount of the melancholy that was so prominent in my writing was a result of the memories that flooded my mind. But I was strangely happy to be back and lived there for several years quite peacefully, though it never felt quite like home.

I even had the pleasure (shall I call it a pleasure?) of meeting Andre Breton once again. He was calling himself an anarchist by that time, and I am sure he did not think highly of my work for it was rather too simple and sentimental for his tastes, but he attended the launch of two of my books and added to their publicity. Suddenly it seemed I was a poet again. I was alive again though I was a very different man to the one I had been. And then, in 1966, in the wake of Breton’s death, I received a phone call to inform me that I had been included in his will. It was a surprise but one which I quickly understood when I entered the office of his attorney and saw the three paintings that awaited me, and the photograph, taken in 1933 at a party, the only photo I have ever seen of Victor and I together. We were holding hands, dressed in cream suits, gazing into one another’s eyes in a manner that looks so very intimate, indeed, you have seen it, it is what piqued your curiosity at the start, was it not? And the paintings were Victor’s, though I have no clue where Breton might have acquired them. He was an avid art collector and had an eye for a masterpiece, and these were some of Victor’s best works. They were wrapped lovingly for me and I carried them back to my apartment with great care but did not unwrap them. They stayed as they were for several more years, until I moved here, in fact, back to Switzerland, when I realised that I had tired of Paris and wished to die somewhere more peaceful.

I have not died yet, though I am sure I am coming close now, finally, and have passed the time with writing and with instructing other writers, as I have done with you, though I fear I have been rather neglectful in your tutelage of late. I hope this final installment in my story will give you some closure, or ease your heart, for I am truly sorry to have made you so distressed. This very minute I have looked up from my work to see you busily writing in your journal and that gives me some joy, for if I could give you any advice it is to never turn away from your writing, even in times of great distress and emotion, especially then, for those are the times when you need your pen in your hand. Your talent for words is your gift to the world, do not squander it.

I shall leave these pages here for you, when you come in, but now I must seek my bed. I am too old to be going without sleep, and my chest and shoulder ache horribly once more. Thank you for drawing these memories from me, my friend. It has been painful but it has been a relief as well. And perhaps now I know there shall be someone to lay bougainvillea at my graveside and know what it means to me, and to Victor.  
Goodnight.


	38. The Epilogue

Journal entry August 23rd 1981

I returned home today. Monsieur Rosey died nearly two weeks ago and I stayed long enough to attend his funeral and hear the reading of his will but didn’t think to tell my parents that I was leaving so when I arrived home they weren’t there. I went around to grand-mere’s house instead, it’s where I am now, but first I must write what happened over this last week, I must put things in order, tell the story properly, as he always said. He would not be well pleased that I haven’t written anything since his death, that I have neglected my pen, but losing him was a shock, and it hurt, even though I knew it was coming. He knew it was coming as well and it made me wonder if, when people get to a certain age, they can actually sense the end.

I found him on the floor by his bed the morning he died. I’ve never seen a dead body before and I will readily admit that I didn’t cope well. I burst into tears and sat down beside him and just couldn’t understand how it could have happened, even if he was old. He had so many scars and seemed so much smaller dead than he had when living. He’d had another heart attack the doctor said. The same doctor who’d told him that he was imagining things and that his chest pain was nothing but heart burn. It seems such an anticlimactic end to a life that was so full of adventure and travel and emotion and turmoil but then, I suppose, Gui never thought of himself as a great man. He didn’t realise how much he did with his life, he’d probably call it a fitting end. At least he didn’t end it himself.

And now, somehow, I have a house and books and paintings, all left to me, written out in his will which he changed only last month (without telling me) and I don’t even think he knew who I am. I didn’t know until today.

But, his funeral. It was short and simple and I did my best to cover his grave in branches from the bougainvillea that hangs across the back windows. When I go back I’ll cover the whole garden in them, perhaps, make it a paradise and a tribute, the same way my grand-pere did for grand-mere. And I will go back. I have to go back. And really I only left to follow a hunch. I went to Nice after the funeral, like I was being pulled there by some invisible force, maybe Fate, as Victor Bauer would say. And I spent two days searching Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat for something that looked familiar, just wandering around backstreets and alleyways and neighbourhoods, feeling more and more disheartened when I couldn’t seem to find what I knew had to be there. I’ve never done anything like that before, have never just hopped on to a train and wandered about a strange city on my own. Coming to stay with Gui was the first thing I ever did without my mother or father chaperoning me. We never seemed like the sort of family to go off on adventures, but reading about his life, and about Bauer, all of it just made me desperate to see it for myself.    
And I did find it eventually. It was small and falling down and the garden was overgrown but it felt so right that I walked up the little stone pathway and knocked on the door. It was answered by an old woman and I tried to explain that I was looking for Victor Bauer or where he had lived and I was actually starting to feel a little silly, for it was a bit of a long shot really, but then I told her that I had been a friend of Gui Rosey’s and that he had told me of their lives together and I watched as her eyes filled with tears. And they were lovely, almond coloured eyes, and she seemed so familiar, and I realised that I was speaking with Maria De Santis.

She showed me in and guided me through the house, pointing out the various paintings Monsieur Bauer had done in the years before he died and asked me what had become of Gui. Her husband was sitting in the yard behind the house and they invited me to stay for dinner with them and it was all rather sad. They asked me a lot of questions about what Gui had done since the war and I told them what I knew, from what he’d written, and they just nodded when I said how he’d tried to kill himself all those times, like that was totally expected.

I asked if they would take me to see his grave but they shook their heads and I was ready to get angry but then Maria went over to their mantelpiece and picked up a small urn, and then I understood. They’d been looking after it for twenty-two years but they let me take it with me, let me take what was left of Victor Bauer, once I explained why. When I go back to Switzerland I’ll dig his ashes through the soil at Gui’s grave, not much of a happy ending, but It’s something.

I thanked Maria for her time and left them my address and phone number but I doubt they’ll be in touch, they were pretty insular people but, she cried again when I left, and thanked me for looking after Monsieur Rosey. I think I should give her number to Aunt Lucie, or grand-pere. Because that’s the most amazing part, for me at least. Because mum and dad weren’t home when I got back to Heyrieux, like I said before, and so I went to grand-mere’s. And when I got there, when I got to their gate, it all just clicked into place and I realised for the first time who my grandparents actually were. My great-aunt Lucie was in the garden, and I watched her as she scolded the weeds as she pulled them up, her hair grey and her back old and bent, but with eyes that were just as Monsieur Rosey had described them and just like her sister’s. She’s a funny old woman. She was the doctor who attended my birth and she’s never let me forget it. She’s been living there as long as I can remember and is as tough as nails. Now I know why.

I stepped into the garden, wondering if my grandparents were around somewhere, and started to look at the garden. I’ve always taken it a bit for granted, that they’ve got such a beautiful garden, and it’s always a bit chaotic and overgrown with the oak tree in the centre and plum trees and irises and roses all piled on top of one another, and violet growing everywhere, even over the path, and maidens hair ferns in every shadow and ivy over the walls and carnations all the way down to the pond along the side. It’s one of my favourite places in the world, that garden, but today I looked at it all with the memory of that letter, the one Gui wrote about, the one from Jana to Violette. And it was all there.

I sat under the tree and felt the tears pricking at my eyes again, wondering why I’d never put the pieces together as I’d read Gui’s story. I’d suspected it when I read the name Viol, because that’s my grand-pere’s name, but his arm is missing from the shoulder, and I honestly didn’t make the connection. My grand-mere calls herself Johanna and I’d never considered that my grand-pere, the small, old man who never says much and spends most of his time in the vegetable garden, could have been the Violette from Monsieur Rosey’s tale.

I took out the pages that made up Gui’s story (I’ll have to bind them properly somehow, so that they don’t get damaged or lost) and read over the various parts again, trying to sort it all out in my head, and that was where my grand-mere found me. She sat down stiffly beside me and put an arm around my shoulders and I handed her one of the pages, the part with the letter transcribed onto it. She read it and I heard her start to cry but she didn’t say anything at first, she just hugged me tighter. But after a while she began to talk and it was like meeting a whole new person.

“Imagine that,” she said as she looked at what Gui had written. “To have kept a copy of that letter so long. He must have been carrying it that night, must have had it in his pocket, imagine that. Poor, poor Rosey.” She sighed and hugged me tighter. “I only realised he was still living a decade or so ago, saw his picture in the paper when he attended Breton’s funeral. There was no point in mentioning it to Viol, it would only have hurt him. But I did keep him in my heart, and when your mother came to me worried about you, that you wished to become a writer and were perhaps in need of guidance and tutelage, well... I looked him up.”

“So you knew?” I asked, probably rather rudely but it was all rather surprising, but she just gave me a small smile and shook her head.

“I knew a little, but not all. I should quite like to read the rest of this, there is quite a lot, is it a memoir?” I nodded and she smiled. “I knew he would take to you. He thinks he is a sceptic but he is a romantic at heart, he can never resist bringing hope to others, trying his best.”

“He died,” I told her suddenly, and I saw her face crumple, but she didn’t cry. “He left me his house.”

Her eyebrows rose at that but she also gave that little twitch of her lips, like she used to do when I was naughty as a child but she didn’t want to punish me.

“I thought he might work it out eventually. Your bone structure is similar to mine, and you have my nose. He could always be canny when he wanted to be. He was a good man.”

“Why haven’t you ever talked about it?” I asked, because it seemed so unfair that there should have been so many secrets, that they couldn’t have just all found one another and been happy.

“And say what?” she countered, crossing her arms and glaring at me sharply. “How was I supposed to tell your mother, or anyone, that her father was a Nazi soldier, or that I had twenty-seven confirmed kills? That I bid farewell to a woman at the beginning of the war and at the end of it welcomed home a man? We did what we felt we needed to, mon petit chou, we started our lives afresh and did the best we could. If I had been an unmarried mother back then we would have been outcasts. If I had been an unmarried mother in an affair with another woman we would have been worse than outcasts. We wanted something better, something more, so Violette became Viol in ernest, and we came here, and made a life together. We never thought we could be parents, our old lives would not have permitted such a thing, but after the war everything was different, all was in confusion, and we made the most of that. I became a teacher, looked after my little girl and my beloved, and we have been very happy.”

“So, grand-pere was once Violette?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “It seems difficult to grasp but I am used to it now, and it has helped him feel safe. He did not fare well in the last years of the war. Losing his friends, the fire, when the infection in his arm returned, the lengths he went to, to protect Lucie... the nightmares still plague him... he could not be that person any more, and so he became this one. It was always within him, I think, and he does not think of himself as particularly male, nor particularly female - he always loathed his breasts and found such liberty in wearing men’s trousers and shirts - he simply is who he is, and it was the easiest and safest way for us to live our lives. It is a little complicated, and I think perhaps we are all three of us too old to go about explaining every detail to you young ones. Things are different now, changing for the better I hope.”

“But you fell in love with a woman,” I urged her but she shook her head again.

“I fell in love with a person. As did Rosey with Bauer. He too was one who lived on that border, dancing between what was masculine and what was feminine. We do not choose who we fall in love with, we can only choose how we will love them, remember that.”

She sighed but when I looked up she was smiling and I realised that grand-pere had come around the side of the house, holding a basket of potatoes and smiling back at her.

“I only wish,” she said softly, taking my hand in hers and holding it tight. “I only wish that things could have turned out so well for Gui and Victor. Viol and I have been so happy here, but Fate can be so horribly cruel. That war was cruel to so many. They deserved a happy ending, Rosey and Bauer, and never got one.”

“At least someone did,” I told her, squeezing her hand, but she started to cry and I didn’t know what to do.

“I miss them terribly, still. But we cannot change the past I suppose. But come now,” she  
sniffed, pulling me to my feet and giving me a tight hug. “There are potatoes to be set on the boil and then there is a suitcase that I think you should see, which has remained shut for too many years. Come.”

And so we went into the house and she whispered something to grand-pere and I wondered what I should say to him but he just pulled me into a one armed hug and kissed my cheek and I looked at him, trying to see the past, but all I saw was person who first taught me to read, and snuck me sweets before dinner, but still with that quiet way of walking and speaking, just as Gui had described as well. And he turned his head to the side to look at me for a long moment and then took me to the spare bedroom, pulling an old suitcase out from under the bed before retreating back out to the kitchen with tears in his eyes. And inside is just, well, everything. Well, not everything I suppose, but all of the paintings and papers that Gui must have packed that last day in Milan, save for the few papers he had on his person, and I’m sitting here now with it all and I can’t seem to comprehend it, and it’s making my heart hurt. I feel like I have their whole lives here, laid out on the bed, but they’re just abstract pieces now and whatever used to hold them together is gone. And it doesn’t feel much like an ending, even though they’ve died and been forgotten by almost everyone, but maybe that’s the way it is, maybe stories like this don’t really end, lives now gone to abstraction but love that lasts forever.  
I’m not sure, but it’s a nice thought.

The End.

 


	39. Art Inspired by the story:

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sample of the art that accompanied this story. More can be found at my tumblr blog. Thank you for reading.

**After the Rain, before the storm**

 

 

**Lafon:**

** **

_"He was the only artist who never hired me for my breasts. Every other artist I had known wanted my body, the sweep of my back, my hips, my waist, but mostly my breasts. But Victor Bauer, he wanted me for my spirit (he told me more than once) and for the colours he saw when he looked at me. He said they were the colours of France, and that to him I was Paris - strength and chaos, love and spirit, magic and pain._   
_It was a joy to sit for Bauer because he never told me to drape myself seductively on a bed or arch my back to accentuate my nipples. For him I sat straight and proud and was always surprised by which parts of me_ _he had chosen to capture in paint. He was my friend, and I loved him, and this was his gift to me."_

_\- Violette Lafon._

**The Cove:**

 

**Prisons of Words and Silence:**

**A kiss on the dusty floor:**

_“I love you,” he whispered eventually, and I lifted my hand to the back of his neck, pulling him down so that I could kiss him._

 

**Victor's Letter:**

_Do you see the sm_ _all flower shop my dear ones? That small shop has been my employer these last months and I must admit that I never thought of the artistry of flowers before but it is quite an interesting artistic venture. I am living in a small room just out of sight of this sketch, which is quite covered in graffiti that my fingers itch to paint properly and make more beautiful so as to be in keeping with the rest of the street. You can just see the edge of the word 'Liberta' there by the shop and just on the other side of that wall is where I sit to eat my meals. It is a thoroughly pretty street. The tree that stands by my host's shop always puts me in mind of a cloud which has come to settle among us, it's branches wafting and floating about and providing the best sort of shade when I am in the street, selling roses to those who pass and still have money for such things. I am sorry it is not a better picture, I shall try to do you another before I send this off. Yours in love, Victor. x_

**The One Between:**

 

**The Portrait of Gui Rosey:**

** **

**Separation:**

**The House at Nice:**


End file.
